


Odyssey

by hidden_inside_of_you



Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Male Character, Bittersweet Ending, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, F/M, Homophobia, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 107,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_inside_of_you/pseuds/hidden_inside_of_you
Summary: Orphaned as a teenager, Kala Dandekar finds herself inadvertently involved with Ajay Kapoor, Mumbai's most infamous mob boss. When the police launch an investigation in Mumbai, he and Kala travel to Berlin to stay with the Bogdanows, their partners in the international drug trade. As Kala and Ajay's relationship deteriorates, she grows closer to Wolfgang, despite his reluctance to open up.Wolfgang, once determined to become the King in Berlin, changes his plans at Kala's insistence. Together, they work to bring down the Bogdanow crime family, with the help of someone from Wolfgang's secretive past.





	1. Under starless skies we are lost

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE READ: This fic contains graphic violence, sexual abuse, child molestation, alcoholism, drug abuse, mentions of suicide, offensive slurs, homophobia, and one major character death (not Kala or Wolfgang.) I will not tag the chapters individually, because these issues come up regularly throughout the fic. Consider this note an all-encompassing TW.**
> 
> It's also helpful to know that the characters are younger in this fic than in canon. Kala is 22, Wolfgang is 24, Will is 25. Additionally, Anton and Irina are both alive. 
> 
> This fic was inspired in part by the album _How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful_ by Florence + the Machine, and each chapter title is taken from song lyrics. Please check her out! She's an incredible artist.

* * *

 

_Did I drink too much?_

_Am I losin' touch?_

_Did I build this ship to wreck?_

 

Kala Kapoor sets aside the sugar jar, sighing. She closes her eyes, looking down at her slender fists on the counter, then jumps at a noise behind her. It's only a maid, entering the kitchen to clean the dinner dishes. Kala smiles quickly, telling the maid to come in, and goes back to staring at the lilac-yellow marks on her hands.

She stirs sugar in her tea, then jumps at a new noise, the raised voices of Sergei and Steiner.

“He’ll be back tomorrow, you can ask him!” shouts Sergei, slapping something down on a table.

“Why do you always send him?” replies Steiner.

“And not you?” guesses his father. “His Russian is better than yours.”

Kala knows this is an excuse and she smiles bitterly to herself. She’s heard very little of the second son -- nephew, she reminds herself -- but from the passing whispers, she knows that he makes fewer mistakes than Steiner.

Steiner scoffs. “Wolfgang? He can barely string together a sentence.”

“Nonsense, leave, I want to enjoy my drink in peace,” says Sergei.

She feels footsteps, hard and heavy, in the hallway towards the kitchen. She braces and turns around as Steiner walks into the kitchen.

“Fucking idiot.”

“I know.”

“Wolfgang? Better Russian? Bullshit.”

“I know.”

She has only been here a week, but already, she is accustomed to the rhythm of the household _. I know. Yes. I know. I agree. Mmhm. Yes, okay._

Steiner slams open the fridge, reaching into it for a beer, then gestures angrily at Kala.

“Why are you awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

Sometimes, in these moments, she replays the mistakes which brought her here. The overturned bus. The swerve. The ephemeral panic in her mother’s eyes, and the police officer who told her she was the only one left.

“How much did you hear?” asks Steiner, pouring his beer.

“My German isn’t good enough to understand much,” she lies, glancing over her shoulder as Ajay appears in the kitchen.

She stiffens.

“Are you coming to bed?” he asks.

Kala nods gently, pulling her tea closer to warm up. Berlin is cold.

“I’m leaving tomorrow, after all,” Ajay reminds her.

She nods again, knowing what he expects, stunned that he misreads her fear as desire. Then she moves her feet, unfeeling, towards him down the dark hall.

“We have to make tonight count, hmm?” she asks, not bothering to disguise her voice, knowing he won’t hear the difference.

The moment plays back. The screech of metal on metal, the emergency blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“We do,” agrees Ajay.

***

Kala turns her face into the covers against the cold Berlin morning, trying to sink into the memory of her childhood street. Her fingers tighten in the sheets, reaching, but the images fade and she turns over. She throws an arm back on the pillow, eyes searching the ceiling for a moment as she listens to the constant backdrop of raised voices.

She closes her eyes and slowly exhales, and then she gets up, yanking a turquoise silk robe from the hook at the side of the bed. She ties it tightly, then runs a hand through her hair, stifles a yawn, and goes into the hall.

She smiles to herself, basking in the chance to have coffee and breakfast without her husband. But she stops at the sight of a young man shouldering a large canvas bag, making his way down the hall.

A sharp jaw, expressive mouth, and cheeks which she imagines form dimples when he laughs; two small wrinkles between his brows as if he frowns too much; dark blonde hair which appears mussed by travel; a prominent freckle under his right eye; distant blue-green eyes which hold her gaze, unnervingly steady; and stubble which seems permanent.

Wolfgang, she says to herself. The nephew. The one who spends half his time in Moscow. He resembles the other Bogdanows so little that Kala questions if he's truly related to them.

He stops as he looks at her, fingers tightening slightly on the strap of his bag.

Then he says “You’re new,” and disappears into the room next to hers.

She doesn’t move for a moment, left in the echo of his abrupt departure. She wrinkles her nose, indignant that she was denied an introduction, and listens to the soft clunks in the room next to hers as he settles in.

She lingers a moment more before proceeding downstairs into the kitchen, where she makes herself a cup of coffee, heats some rice, and boils an egg. She listens distantly to Sergei speak on the phone in Russian and taps her fingers gently on the cold marble of the counter.

She looks outside to see a blue gust of snow and slush fall from the roof, and she hugs herself for warmth as the egg rattles in the small pot. She closes her eyes and focuses on her breath, repeating to herself that she can relax now, that Ajay is gone.

When she arrived in Berlin a week ago, she was sure she would get no respite from him. Returning to Mumbai was out of the question due to the investigation, and she assumed he would stay in Berlin with her -- the opportunity to speak with the mob boss in Moscow, however, was one that couldn't be passed up.

She takes the egg out of the water and gently smiles. A day without him is more than she's had in a long time.

She carries her breakfast and coffee back upstairs, settling on the window-seat that overlooks the wintry courtyard behind the Bogdanow mansion -- grey oak trees baring sparse brown leaves, snow lingering in drifts on the cobble, a fountain that has iced over. There's something romantic and medieval about this mansion, something that reminds her of a castle, a fortress. She takes a small bite of egg and rice and smiles around the spoon, meditating on this word:  _fortress_. It can serve as her fortress, if only for a day.

***

Wolfgang falls backward onto his bed and rubs his face, drained from the turbulent flight from Moscow. He blinks and takes in the familiar room, gaze lingering on the gold-plated family crest mounted on the wall above the bar. His sight skips like a stone to each object he resents -- the bear sculpture, the portrait of a Saint he can't recall the name of, a gold candelabra. He could remove the objects, but not without Sergei noticing and asking for an explanation.

Wolfgang doubts that his disgust with his family's ostentatious wealth and strict nationalism will play well, so the objects stay.

He groans tiredly and shuts his eyes, debating whether he should shower and eat before attempting to sleep. Then he gets up and, without thought or reason, goes to the bar at the side of the room, uncaps the vodka, and drinks from it for a moment. Then he tosses his boots off, strips to his boxers, and gets in bed.

His phone rings.

He swears softly and sits up, looking at the display of his phone. Irina Bogdanow. He exhales, shuts his eyes, and answers.

"Hi, mama," he says dully.

"Are you back?" she asks. "When can I see you? Are you here? Where are you?"

"I'm here," he assures her.

"I want to see you," she says insistently, tone split between exuberance and fear. "I haven't seen you in months."

"That isn't true," he says patiently.

"It is!" she says with a laugh. "It was your birthday. I saw you on your birthday. I made you your favorite cake and we sat by Malchower See."

That was his seventeenth birthday. He swallows and shakes his head, reluctant to correct her. He saw her last month. He brought her soup.

"Okay," he says. "I can see you tomorrow."

"Today," she says.

"I have to sleep today, I'm exhausted."

"But Wolfgang--"

"Mama, I can't. I can't. Tomorrow, okay?"

He hears her shakily exhale and sniffle, then respond in a small voice, "Okay."

He opens his mouth to say goodbye, but then he stops, rubs a hand over his stubble, and forces out, "Are you okay? Are you in trouble?"

"I just want to see you," she whispers.

He nods. "Okay, tschüss."

She repeats these words. He hangs up and tosses his phone to the foot of the bed, closing his eyes again. Then he slowly shakes his head and breathes out, resisting the reality of her situation -- lately, it's more than moments of unprompted fear, more than strange questions, more than misremembering and confusion. She seems to live in a kinder universe, one without Anton, clinging to her son as her only source of light -- he understands this, but she used to be able to separate her parallel fantasy from her real life. He's unsure if that's true anymore.

He turns over in bed, opening his eyes to stare out of the window at the courtyard below. Then he glances up, softening, as his grey cat jumps onto the bed.

"Hi, cat..."

The cat meows loudly, revealing sharp incisors, then begins to purr as it trots up to him. He pats it gently.

"Did you piss on Steiner's bed like I asked you to, hm?"

The cat rubs its head against his hand, then curls up next to him and goes to sleep. He smiles faintly and closes his eyes, drifting away as the vodka infuses his blood. He listens to soft footsteps in the room next to him and speculates who the woman with the grieving eyes is and why she's here.

He drifts off soon after this. Despite his exhaustion and the soporific dose of vodka, his sleep is plagued with restless memories. He spends the night in an inescapable back and forth between his childhood apartment in Karow and his parents' current home nearby; it's as if the places are competing in a game which aims to taunt and confuse him. One moment he's in the kitchen in Karow, silently watching his father drink; the next he's with his mother, thumbing balm over a black eye for her; then he's in Karow again, a rough whisper of _don't tell_ ; and finally he's in bed, a hand sliding slowly over his chest, and he sits up, panicked, a snarl echoing. _In my house?_

He breathes out and blinks several times. The room is dark now, late evening. The cat has departed and the alcohol has long worn off. He stares around the room for a moment, barely awake, and then his phone lights up on the bedside table and he looks at it.

His mother. He picks up and answers gruffly, "What?"

"You said you were coming," says Irina, hurt.

"I said tomorrow," he replies, shutting his eyes in astonishment.

"No, you said later," she tells him in a tone of exasperation. "Are you coming?"

"Fuck," he murmurs, getting to his feet. "Yes, fine. I'm coming."

"I'll make you dinner--"

"You don't have to--" He cuts himself off. "Okay. I'll be there soon."

She says goodbye, and he gets dressed in dark jeans and a warm grey sweater, adding a black stocking cap after glancing outside at the growing drifts. He puts on his leather jacket, pours vodka into a large flask and pockets it, then goes through the dark house, downstairs.

He pauses in the den where Sergei, Steiner, Elke, and the new girl -- looking ill at ease -- are having wine by the fire.

Wolfgang's eyes linger briefly on the girl. She's arrestingly beautiful in the firelight -- expressive brows, delicate features, glittering eyes that are lined with a touch of smoky color -- but he doesn't fixate on this. Instead, he notices how tightly her legs are crossed, how firm her grip on the fragile stem of her wine glass is.

He wonders briefly what she's seen.

"Wolfgang?" queries Sergei.

"I have to see my mother," he explains, pulling gloves out of his pockets and putting them on.

"Is she having one of her fits again?" drawls Steiner, his mouth curling.

Wolfgang leaves without responding, walking outside and across the frosty drive to his car. He gets inside, starts it, and roughly turns the dial on the heater. Then he takes a swig of vodka and pulls away.

***

Inside, next to the stone fireplace, Kala sips wine and looks unsurely at the two older men who beckoned her to socialize. She looks to her left at Elke, the only comforting presence in the room despite her apparent inability to smile.

"Ajay, of course, is one of our most important partners, especially since Sokolov, regrettably, failed to be completely honest with us," Sergei is saying.

Kala notices his mouth twist at the word "regrettably." She stares at him for a moment, struck by his gnarled face behind the delicate, crystalline wine glass. She turns to watch Steiner, who is smoking and picking at the thread of his leather chair, a nervous tick.

"Sokolov kept more than his fair share?" murmurs Kala, looking down.

"I see your husband doesn't hide his business dealings from you," says Sergei with a peculiar laugh. He gestures at her with his glass. "And he shouldn't. Women are more trouble than they're worth when they're left guessing."

Kala blinks, stomach tight.

"Although I'm sure there are parts of it all that offend you," chuckles Sergei, finishing his wine and reaching for more. "Unfortunately, that is the nature of lives like ours."

Elke gives the slightest shake of her head, lips pressed together, and she drains the rest of her wine as well. Kala clears her throat and glances at Steiner, who she hasn't spoken to yet tonight. She's well-versed in small talk with mobsters, but this particular family has an unspoken darkness, and she's not sure she wants to discover its origin.

"That...is an interesting tattoo you have," she says to Steiner.

He bares his teeth in what she assumes is a grin but reads as a grimace. He tilts his head down to reveal the top of the tattoo.

"Took hours," he says. "Found a real professional, real fucking artist in Stadelheim..."

"Is that a town, or...?"

Sergei snorts and leans closer to the fire. "No. It's a prison in Munich. Steiner, tell her what the tattoo means..."

"It's traditional," he says in his rough voice. "Virgin Mary, because I went to jail so young, you know? You want to know what I did? I'll tell you." He takes a small switchblade from his pocket and flips the blade out. It glows in the firelight. "I took this knife, and I stuck it in the gut of one of my bratoks because he kept some of the product back for himself, lying little bitch."

Kala blinks and sips her wine. "Oh. A bratok is one of the brothers?”

"That's what you want to know after that story?" asks Steiner, disappointed. He flips the blade shut and pockets his knife.

"Yes, it is," answers Elke.

"Ripped his fucking guts out," adds Steiner.

Sergei shakes his head and his lips twitch into a bloodless smirk as he drinks. Kala holds her breath as she takes in the sight. Ajay's men in Mumbai are diplomatic, overly-courteous when they see her, the boss's wife. These men are not. She drinks her wine and reflects for a moment on Steiner's words -- "another one of her fits." She caught a brief reflection of rage in the young man's eyes, a promise of revenge.

Berlin has yet to convince her that the Russian Brotherhood is familial in any respect -- she's found no indication that the ties are held together by anything but fear and threats.

She cautiously extends her glass for more wine, which Elke pours. She watches the older woman for a moment, taking in her rigid expression, a statue after decades of showing restraint. She lifts her glass to her lips and promises herself she isn't seeing her future.

"You're quite young," says Sergei, interrupting her thoughts as a log crackles and rolls in the fire. "I'm surprised you are Ajay's wife. You could almost be his daughter."

Kala sucks on her the inside of her cheek. "He's only ten years older than I am."

Sergei nods. "You look younger. You have big eyes."

Kala looks at him for a moment, holding her breath. He starts to laugh, putting his glass aside and stretching in front of the flames. For an instant, her mind fixates on the orange glow of the fire and the crooked smile of the old man in front of her, a familiar image of hell.

Then Steiner says, in German assuming she doesn't understand, "Big ass, too, Schnepfe..."

Kala knows the word means "tease." She stares at him, stiffening, cold sweat starting on her brow.

"Pretty for someone like her," he goes on.

She swallows, wine glass suddenly slippery under her touch. She watches as he smudges his cigarette on an ashtray on the table, gets to his feet, and looks at her hungrily. He sniffles, eyes narrowed, and spits into his empty glass. Then he exits the room without another word, and Kala looks in alarm at Elke, who does not meet her gaze.

Kala looks at the fire, repelled, and slowly sips her wine. Her chest rises and falls, and as she pulls her empty glass away, she plasters on a disingenuous smile.

"I...I had a difficult time sleeping last night, please excuse me," she says as she puts her glass down.

She holds herself stiffly as she walks out of the living room, and by the time she is on the second floor, she finds herself running. She sprints down the hall, tears streaming, and throws open the door to her room. Then she slams it shut, locks it, and leans against it, panting.

 

_A screech of metal on asphalt; sudden silence as she hangs upside-down in her seat, blood coursing over her lips. She blinks, stretching her hands out as if underwater, and then her seatbelt gives way and she falls. She scrambles through the broken glass as sirens blare, stumbling as she stands. She turns, sees the wreckage, and then loses consciousness._

 

"No, no," she mumbles. "No." She clenches her fingers, losing the ability to stay on her feet. She sinks down the door and stares with bright eyes around the dark room. Then she puts a hand over her face and softly sobs, shaking her head.

It's the same each time, the progression of memories.

 

_She opens her eyes in the hospital and blinks in the overbright light. Her vision adjusts and she finds Ajay and her aunt sitting nearby._

_Ajay smiles and pats her hand. "We will get you through this."_

 

She pulls her hands down her face and looks listlessly to the side, chest clenching.

 

_Ajay's hands on her waist, pressing her closer and closer to his bedroom._

_"After all of this? It's the least you could do..."_

 

She shuts her eyes and breathes out hard. The memories spiral and cling to her like spider webs. Then she grits her teeth and forces her eyes open again. The moon comes into view outside, vast and blue in the winter sky, and her shoulders drop, defeated, abruptly empty.

She gets to her feet and crosses the room to her suitcase, where she takes a small jade statue of Ganesha from its protective wrapping. She holds it in her hands for a moment, eyes closed, and traces the details of it with slow fingertips.

Then she puts it away, wipes her eyes, and walks to the bathroom to take a shower.

***

Wolfgang approaches his parents' house -- a one-bedroom with broken bricks and dogs howling in the back. He parks alongside the frozen road and looks for a moment at the light in the kitchen. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and touches the bridge of his nose to it, then hits it hard with his hand, gets out of the car, and goes towards the house.

He climbs the rickety stairs of the front porch and pauses at the door. He stares at the brass tag under the peephole, which bears the address. One screw has failed since he was last here, and the tag is hanging like a frown. He touches his fingers to it, then knocks.

The door opens instantly and his young mother wraps her arms around him, swaying and laughing.

"Wolfgang!"

"Hello," he mumbles.

She pulls back and squeezes his shoulders, beaming. The bags under her eyes are rusty and her smile is maniacal. Her brows dip with affection as she looks at him.

"Wolfgang," she says again.

He looks down to hide his flat expression. She grins and pats his arm.

"I made you some dinner," she says excitedly.

He looks up and takes in her kind features, eyes which resemble his, matted blonde hair which is tucked in a messy braid behind one ear. He rubs her arm and swallows as a broken bottle crunches under his feet.

The apartment reeks of alcohol, cigarettes, and burnt oatmeal. He looks at his father, passed out on the couch, his oxygen tank haphazardly to the side, and his jaw twitches.

Then he looks back at his mother, who beams and escorts him into the kitchen with a smile. She reaches the counter and freezes, glancing around in confusion. She looks into an empty pot on the stove and frowns, shaking the pot as if doing so will conjure food.

"Mama," says Wolfgang quietly.

"I..." She stares into the pot and tilts her head. "I...I thought I made you soup...that must have been last time…”

"It's okay," Wolfgang says hastily, moving the pot out of her reach. "I ate already."

"No," she insists, looking desperately around the kitchen. "No, no." Her hands seize on a package of dry milk and she shakes some into a jug nearby before adding water from the tap.

Wolfgang watches her with worried eyes. She stirs the jug, then reaches for a box of plain wheat cereal and pours some into two bowls. She adds the milk, then two spoons, and hands one helping to him.

He looks at her guardedly. "Mama..."

The carefully-constructed fantasy of perfect motherhood crumbles slightly. He sees the realization in her eyes, but she simply touches his arm and whispers, "Say Amen."

He breathes out, eyes searching the kitchen for an image of comfort, and then picks up his spoon. He takes a bite of the cereal, eschewing the prayer, and looks up at the sound of a swinish snore from the living room. His eyes linger on his father for a moment, ashen and sweaty, and then on the filthy kitchen. He silently opens the fridge and finds an apple, three slices of bread on a plate, and beer.

He sets aside his bowl and touches his mother's shoulder. Based on her hair and the coarse texture of her dress, she hasn't showered or done laundry in nearly a week. He shakes his head slightly, then begins to gather dishes from the kitchen and add them to the sink.

Irina watches him without comment and he struggles to keep his movements gentle as he washes the dishes. She eventually steps up beside him, takes a clean cloth from the drawer, and begins to dry what he washes.

"This has to stop," he says after another moment. "It has to stop."

Irina shrugs. "We're okay, Wolfgang, we--"

"He's half-dead and you're half-crazy," snarls Wolfgang, his capacity for kindness slipping away.

Irina pauses as she wipes a bowl. She tilts her head.

"I'm not," she says softly.

"Look at this," he says in disbelief, turning her with wet hands, forcing her to confront the state of the house.

"I missed you, that's all," she continues.

"I saw you last month.” He breathes out and shakes his head. "I saw you last month, don't you remember?"

Her eyes grow glossy. She shakes her head.

He nods after a long time. "Okay. Are you sure you don't want to--"

"I can't live with Sergei," she interrupts.

He nods again and says more softly, "Okay."

Then he exhales and she draws him into a tight hug. He stares listlessly over her shoulder.

"My little one," she murmurs, rubbing the back of his head with her hand.

He closes his eyes, heart heavy and heated, and then she releases him. They spend the rest of the night cleaning the kitchen, speaking only to express practicalities. He leaves around midnight after sneaking her recipe book into his coat, determined to make her enough food to last through his next absence.

***

Kala dries her face on a rough towel in the bathroom, then grips the counter along the sink and stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her transformation was insidious but inevitable, like waves shaping the shoreline. She recognized herself in the first few weeks after the accident; she felt her identity begin to slip after a year; after five, she looks at herself and knows the girl she used to be is gone.

She dabs her eyes with the towel she's wrapped in, then hangs it and reaches for her robe; she catches the reflection of a bruise on her ribs and quickly covers up with the robe. She returns to the bedroom, looking at the tight corners of the duvet, the pillows arranged like headstones. Then she turns away, takes a wool blanket from the closet, and unlocks her door.

She sticks her head out of the door to make sure the hall is unoccupied. Then, doubting the intentions of the men in the house, she steps back inside her room and takes her gun from her suitcase. She hides it under the blanket as she walks, headed for the stairs. She climbs until she is out of steps, and emerges on the rooftop.

In the summer, she's sure it serves as a patio -- there are a few forgotten chairs, now covered in snow.

She skirts the slush that pools around the edges of the roof, finding a dry patch adjacent to the chimney, where she notices several cigarette butts and beer caps. She sits and stares at the cloudy sky, the moon hidden now, casting milky light that blends with the orange glow of the city. Then she looks at the stone railing around the edge of the roof, mind making unbidden calculations -- one strong heave to get up on the ledge, four stories to fall, plenty.

She exhales and closes her eyes, as if interrupting the image will change her instincts. Then she leans her head on the chimney, focusing on the warmth of the bricks.

Only a moment passes before the door to the roof opens. Her hand automatically finds her gun under the blanket, but her grip on it softens when she sees it's the nephew. Wolfgang.

He looks at her with wide eyes, as if her presence here is as unexpected as a ghost. He shakes his head and starts to retreat.

"Were you going to sit here?" she calls.

He stands still for a moment, scrutinizing her. Then he steps forward, extracts a package of cigarettes from his pocket, and sits next to her. He offers a cigarette to her. She takes it cautiously, eyes never leaving his face, gathering information -- though she has never interacted with him, his presence is unlike Steiner's, Sergei's, or Ajay's; her legs don't twitch with an intuitive desire to run.

"You're Wolfgang," she says quietly.

He lights a cigarette of his own and nods as he protects it from the wind. He hands her the lighter.

She pulls the blanket protectively around herself and lights the cigarette. She learned to say yes to be polite, though she doesn't enjoy smoking. She takes a small puff from it and breathes out quickly.

"I'm Kala," she says. "Kala Kapoor, Ajay's wife."

He looks at her in surprise as he pulls his cigarette away from his mouth. "I didn't know he was married."

"He doesn't talk about me," says Kala.

He looks at her for a moment, his brow slightly knitted, his perceptive gaze stinging her. Then he looks away without comment and smokes. She does too, and then coughs gently.

"Not used to these?" he asks, gesturing loosely with the package of cigarettes.

She tongues over her bottom lip. "I only smoke at business parties. For Ajay. The women there always smoke, so..."

"Why do you feel obligated here?" he asks with a snort, resting his wrist on his knee, the cigarette glimmering in the cold night.

_Because you're a man and you offered._ She bites the inside of her cheek and extinguishes the cigarette on the roof, then wraps her fingers around the outside of her knees and stares ahead. She feels his eyes on her but she refuses to look.

"Why are you here?" he asks after a moment.

"Here on this rooftop or here in Berlin?" she asks.

He smirks gently. "Both."

She smiles, lips tight, and shakes her head. "I'm on this rooftop because I cannot sleep, and I'm in Berlin because the police are looking for my husband in Mumbai."

He squints. "Why not a hotel?"

She looks up at him suspiciously, unsure why he asks so many questions. But she says, "Because a hotel would be expected, paying for it would leave evidence, and your uncle offered."

Wolfgang shakes his head and laughs coldly. "Figures."

Kala looks at him with a harsh brow. "What does?"

He shrugs. "My uncle is stupid. It figures he would offer someone on the run a place here." He shakes his head again and smokes. "You don't think the police in your city are aware who Ajay does business with here?"

"They are," says Kala in a small voice. "But Ajay says the police here don't bother you."

"Does that seem like a safe assumption to you?" asks Wolfgang.

Kala watches him for a moment. Then she raises her eyebrows, tilts her head, and says, "Well, they don't want _me._  I don't particularly care if they find us."

He glances at her, expressionless. Then he laughs.

"Sounds like he's the love of your life," he says.

Kala smirks, toes creeping out of the blanket as she stretches, fighting a feeling of satisfaction. Wolfgang continues to chuckle, taking his flask from his pocket, and they both relax slightly after this exchange.

"Do you do this every night?" she asks as she watches him lift the glossy flask to his lips.

"Sit here? No."

She smiles slightly at the implication that he does drink every night, though she shouldn't. She hesitates, then puts her hand out for the flask. She knows this gesture is too friendly for a first conversation, but something in his eyes tells her he won't refuse.

He hands it to her with a small smile. She takes a sip and wrinkles her nose at the strength, then hands it back. He drinks, then looks at her out of the corner of his eye-- when he saw her by the fire earlier, she was making herself small. Now, she isn't so withdrawn.

He takes a moment to study her as he swallows more vodka -- slender features, eyes which are heavy, inexplicably kind, yet a reflection of her loss; wide plum-colored lips, the bottom one bearing a slight indent from repeated contact with her teeth; inky hair which seems to defy the law of physics, frizzing high and wild in the slight wind.

He smiles gently to himself at the sight of her, unaccountably comforted by her presence. She notices him looking at her, and he quickly glances away, drinking more vodka. Then he catches the glisten of a gun, peeking out from under her blanket.

He touches his index finger to the barrel and meets her eyes again.

“What’s this for?” he asks.

She swallows, flustered, and shakes her head. “Nothing...um, I--”

He looks straight ahead, drinks, and says, “Steiner?”

She looks at him in astonishment and doesn’t speak. He laughs humorlessly, then flicks the gun.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Do me the favor.”

She watches him intently, intrigued.

“Your instincts are right,” adds Wolfgang, stretching his legs out on the roof and tilting his head back on the chimney. Then he glances at her gun. “You know how to use it?”

Kala blinks and her lips form a steady, unamused smile. “Do I know how to use it?”

He studies her expression, then chuckles and drinks. “Okay, you do.”

“Yes, I do,” she says. She reaches for the flask and he gives it to her, and after drinking, she murmurs, “None of you get along, do you?”

“No,” says Wolfgang shortly.

“It isn’t like this in Mumbai,” she replies. “Ajay protects his men.”

“We protect each other,” says Wolfgang. “We don’t like each other.”

“Then why protect each other?” asks Kala, shuddering slightly in the wind and adjusting her blanket.

“Because we all know too much,” says Wolfgang with a cold laugh, taking the flask back. “Which is the point.”

“Well, that isn’t how I would operate,” says Kala with a raise of her eyebrows as she looks over the courtyard. “It doesn’t matter how afraid someone is...without trust, things fall apart.”

Wolfgang makes a soft noise of disagreement and shakes his head. “Every year of my life, I was sure we were at the end. I was sure someone would fuck up.” He drinks. “Fear works. Always has.”

“I’ve heard the boss in Moscow disagrees,” she murmurs.

“Lila?” asks Wolfgang. “Yeah, but she could lead armies without trying. Have you met her?”

“Sounds like you have a crush,” says Kala with a tiny, teasing smile.

He shakes his head. “No, I respect her though.”

“She’s who you work with when you’re in Moscow?” asks Kala.

He nods. Kala hums in thought, and then smirks.

“I’m sure Ajay is expecting a man,” she says.

“If he says anything to that effect to her, she’ll make you a widow,” replies Wolfgang.

Kala laughs at this and leans her head back. “Mm, I better prepare then, because he won’t be able to resist. Is she good looking?”

“She is,” he says.

“I’ll definitely be widowed,” Kala jokes. “He’ll try to sleep with her.”

Wolfgang raises his eyebrows, watching her for a moment as her coal-black curls bounce, as her eyes sparkle in amusement, glossy from the vodka she’s had.

Then he shakes his head, drinks, and grins gently. “I tried to fuck her once and she slapped me in the face. Didn’t try again.”

“You tried to what?” asks Kala in a lively tone. “Are you sure about the crush?”

“I used to like her. She likes women.”

Kala’s expression softens and after a moment she says, “I’m very surprised she became the boss...in Moscow of all places.”

Wolfgang shrugs. “She’s remorseless, her people trust her, and she has a lot of them.”

Kala nods slowly, then asks, “You’re the one who moves drugs from here to Moscow?”

He nods after a moment of consideration.

“I imagine that’s terribly risky,” she says.

He looks away from her, sliding his upper lip into his mouth for a moment, thumbing the ash off his cigarette. He shrugs.

Kala watches him, shivering but too intrigued to excuse herself and go inside. “How do you avoid the police?”

“It’s the polizei that are the problem, not the politsiya,” he tells her. “And I don’t bring drugs into Germany.” He takes a drag. “Are you undercover?”

She laughs. “No.”

“Then why do you want to know?”

She breathes out, hugging herself under the blanket. She perceives kindness under his defined features and untrusting eyes; she recognizes hidden grief, which she doubts he has ever expressed to his family, who she assumes is responsible, and for a moment, the world tilts and she experiences a sense of surety she hasn’t felt in years.

“Because I have no one else to talk to here,” she says quietly.

He raises his eyebrows, just a twitch, almost imperceptible. The expression conceals the fact that his chest has suddenly flooded with hope. He passes her the flask, then rubs his thumb on the filter of his cigarette, ash falling.

“I’m sure we’ll never go back to Mumbai,” Kala goes on in a whisper after she drinks.

“That bad?” asks Wolfgang.

“Yes,” says Kala simply.

He nods. “Is your family there?”

She stiffens. “No.”

He nods again and doesn’t press her, then sets his wrist on his knee, his cigarette nearly spent. She glances at him and returns the flask, reflecting on the heartsick back and forth they’ve just engaged in. She’s never shared a flask with another person, let alone a man, or talked to a stranger this openly. But Berlin is a new city, Wolfgang is a new man, and in the sub-zero chill on the rooftop, Kala feels a tiny seed of courage begin to grow.

It terrifies her. She smiles quickly at him, gets to her feet, and says, “I should sleep. Thank you for sharing your drink.”

He nods, and his expression communicates plainly that he wishes she would stay. She smiles once more, then takes her gun and returns inside. He remains, lighting another cigarette.

***

The next morning, Wolfgang finds his uncle in the den, drinking coffee and reviewing notes that the _Sovietnik_ delivered to him before dawn. He clears his throat in the door and his uncle looks up, then impatiently waves him inside.

“What is it?” he asks.

Wolfgang grips the back of a chair on the opposite side of Sergei’s desk. “I want to stay in Berlin for a while.”

Sergei’s brow flickers and he sets his paperwork aside. “Why?”

“My mother is worse,” Wolfgang tells him.

Sergei buries his head in his hands and sighs. Wolfgang’s nails dig into the soft wood of the chair and he lifts it up slightly, anxious.

“She’s worse, I need to see her more often--”

“Who do we send instead?” demands Sergei.

“Steiner.”

Sergei scoffs and drinks his coffee, leaning back in his ornate chair, cloaked in a cream and gold robe with hieroglyphic lions on it. He shakes his head as he drinks, almost laughing.

“Steiner,” he mutters, as if Wolfgang suggested they send a monkey. “Facchini hates Steiner.” He drinks more coffee and shakes his head, then holds up a hand. “Fine. Fine. Why is she worse?”

Wolfgang narrows his eyes. “How the fuck would I know? She’s worse. That’s all.”

“Worse, what it is worse?”

Wolfgang looks at his uncle’s toad-like face for a moment, his features too similar to Anton’s for him to respond at length.

“She can barely feed herself,” he says quietly.

“And you’re going to help with that?” snorts Sergei.

Wolfgang’s jaw clenches and he breathes out of his nose. He speaks measuredly, voice shaking. “She needs to see someone--”

“She’ll say something,” Sergei says with a dismissive wave of his hand, adding after a moment, “Fine, stay, you have a month. But if there’s unexpected business in Moscow, you’ll go.”

Wolfgang scarcely resists the urge to snarl at his uncle’s presumption. “Okay.”

“How is my brother?” adds Sergei as Wolfgang turns.

Wolfgang stops, eyes lifeless, and says, “He’s the same.”

“Is he?” asks Sergei, unconvinced.

Wolfgang turns and continues to leave. He stares straight ahead, nostrils flared, jaw jumping in anger and satisfaction. He smirks. “It’s too bad the doctors can’t do more.”

Then he walks upstairs, pauses at Kala’s door, and goes into his own room, where he pours himself a large serving of vodka. He lifts the glass to his lips, drinks, then returns downstairs to the kitchen. He sets the glass to the left of the stove, then reaches to the back of the cupboard to retrieve his mother’s recipe book.

He opens it to the page that has been used the most -- chicken soup with spaetzle, one of the only things she showed him how to make. He takes onions, carrots, and celery out of the industrial-sized fridge, usually the cook’s purview; he’s sure the diminutive elderly woman will scold him like she used to when he was a child for being in the kitchen, but he ignores this, reaching for more ingredients as he drinks his vodka.

He pulls a large knife from the block next to the cutting board, then adds some butter to a pan and turns on the gas.

He looks at the tiny, slanted writing in the recipe book. _Some butter._ He’s unsure if his mother means a little or a lot, and he doesn’t remember what she told him at the time. If he had to guess, he would say that she told him something like “just use enough.”

His mother, then as now, has difficulty discerning what is subjective and what is objective. He’s sure she sees the world in a self-explanatory, ordered way, despite the phantoms and delusions; he’s sure this comforts her, though personally, he’s never been able to trust that the universe has order or that the order is good.

He breathes out slowly, reluctant to cook and to revive memories. Then grits his teeth, adds the onions to the pan, and begins to chop celery.

  

_“Mama, why does he keep the knives locked up when you’re not cooking?” asks Wolfgang, standing on tiptoes to reach counter-height and watching his mother’s hands skin potatoes._

_“Because knives are dangerous,” says Irina._

_Wolfgang squints. “So are guns. He doesn’t lock them up.”_

_Irina sighs and pauses her work, putting a hand on Wolfgang’s shoulder. She kneels to be at his height and touches a finger to his nose._

_“Take life as it is, munchkin,” she says, then stands again._

 

Wolfgang transfers the celery to the pan and needily drinks more vodka. At the time, age eight, he didn’t understand his father's behavior or his mother's response. Now, he suspects Anton locked the knives away because he believed Irina would be brave enough to defend herself with one, but she wouldn’t be so bold with a gun. He thinks this is accurate -- even now, he’s unsure his mother knows how to use a gun, especially the glocks his family has always favored. He asked her where the magazines were once, and she handed him a stack of periodicals.

He leans against the counter for a moment, lost, and drinks more. As he glances at the simmering pot, a new memory steals into his mind.

 

_“What are you doing?” he asks the young man at the stove -- he’s wearing a loose tank top with the logo of the Chicago Bulls on the front and his hair is messy from being in the shower._

_Will raises his eyebrows as if the answer is obvious. “Making you dinner?”_

_Wolfgang frowns. “What? Why?”_

_“Because I want to? Can you relax for two seconds? What do you think I’m doing, adding arsenic?”_

_“You are a spy, you know,” says Wolfgang with a tiny smirk, crossing the space between them and leaning to kiss the side of Will’s mouth._

_“Agent,” Will says._

_“Agent, that’s right,” replies Wolfgang, as if he just remembered._

_Will rolls his eyes and laughs, then turns and kisses Wolfgang hello._

_“What did you do today?” he asks as he pulls away._

_“Nothing I can tell you about,” says Wolfgang. “You?”_

_“Ditto,” says Will with a laugh, adding after a moment, “We’re the two stupidest people on the planet, right?”_

_“Definitely,” agrees Wolfgang._

 

Wolfgang drains the rest of his vodka and pinches the bridge of his nose. He stirs the soup, teeth clenched, then reaches for a bottle of whiskey that the cook uses to flavor baked goods. He refills his glass with this, unwilling to experience even a whisper of loneliness or regret, and drinks more as he continues with the soup.

  

_“Hey, can you, hold on--”_

_Will lifts up, breaking the kiss, and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”_

_They’re on Will’s shitty couch, making out instead of watching what’s on television, sheltered from the brutal winter of 2010._

_Wolfgang breathes in, smiling faintly, then shakes his head and glances away, unable to say the words while looking directly at his boyfriend. “Ich liebe dich...”_

_Will stares at him for a moment, stunned, hands suddenly tight on his arms. Then he grins and says, “Ich liebe dich.”_

_Wolfgang meets his eyes and simply watches for a moment, searching for dishonesty. Then he wrinkles his nose. “Your accent is terrible.”_

_Will groans and rests his head on Wolfgang’s chest. “Fuck, what is wrong with you?”_

_Wolfgang grins. “It is, it’s terrible.”_

_“My accent might suck, but you’re emotionally unavailable.”_

_Wolfgang pops his brows. “You picked me.”_

_Will shakes his head, and after a moment, chuckles and says, “Yeah. Sure did._

 

Wolfgang listlessly searches the cabinets for white pepper, angered by his mind’s tendency to remember specifically what he doesn’t want to. He drinks more, aware this will only stimulate his memories, apathetic to this. He finds the tiny jar of white pepper, shakes some haphazardly into the bowl of flour in front of him, then stirs it together with some milk.

 

_He sits next to his mother at church, touching his feet to the back of the pew in front of him, waiting for the pastor to stop speaking so he can go outside and find Felix. Irina pushes his legs down so his feet find the floor and he rolls his eyes as the pastor revisits a thought from earlier in the sermon._

_“He already said this,” Wolfgang says to Irina._

_“Be quiet,” she says._

_He rolls his eyes again, envisioning what he’ll say to Felix later. Then the door in the back of the church bursts open and everyone turns at the noise. Anton comes in wearing a ratty undershirt, clutching a bottle of vodka. Wolfgang feels his mother’s breathing accelerate next to him; the pastor stops speaking, and murmurs rumble throughout the crowd._

_Anton reaches them and yanks Irina to her feet by her hair. Gasps all around, several men move closer to help. Irina yelps in pain and Anton pushes her so she falls in the aisle, then smashes the bottle of vodka on the side of the nearest pew. He grabs Wolfgang by his shirt and pulls him out of his seat, pushing him too. He stumbles and quickly helps his mother up._

_They both look at Anton with wide, resentful eyes and he begins to laugh obnoxiously, encircling them. Then he slaps Irina across the face with the back of his hand._

_The church collectively gasps._

_“I told you not to bring him here,” he growls at her, taking Wolfgang’s head in his hand and shaking it roughly. “Told you not to poison his head with all this bullshit.”_

_Irina holds her face and nods. Wolfgang looks around the church at the guests, who mirror his expression of helplessness. Then Anton drags Irina out of the church and Wolfgang follows them. At the door, a woman catches his hand and looks at him intently._

_“Young man, should I call the police?”_

_Wolfgang shakes his head hard, panicked at the thought, and hastens after his parents._

 

When they got home from church that day, he sat in his room, hugging his knees to his chest while his parents screamed at each other in the next room; he heard his father hit his mother three times and finally he couldn’t stay still. He ventured into the next room, and his father fixed his predatory gaze upon him. Irina screamed for Anton not to beat him too, but it was too late.

Wolfgang stretches his hand out in front of him, vision blurry from the amount of liquor he’s had, and studies the jagged scar in between his thumb and forefinger, the result of a badly timed block as his father brought a bottle down on him. Then he lifts his drink to his mouth, shuts off the heat on the stove, and searches for some glass jars.

 

_“Stage what?” asks Sergei, horrified._

_“Three, it’s very serious,” whispers Irina._

_“He’s going to die?” asks Wolfgang._

_Irina hesitates, looking around the ornate den of the Bogdanow mansion. She glances down, unspeaking, and hugs herself._

_Wolfgang gets to his feet, eyes wild, and says quietly, “Tell me the truth.”_

_Irina touches her fingers to her brow to soothe a headache. Then she nods dully._

_“Yes,” she says. “The doctor said five years at the most.”_

_Wolfgang says nothing, unable to breathe; after a moment, he takes his cigarettes out of his pocket and exits the den. He feels his mother’s eyes on his back but he doesn’t turn. He gets into his car in the sunny driveway, stares without seeing out of the windshield, and then he presses his hands to his face and sobs in gratitude._

 

Wolfgang finishes the dregs of his whiskey, then puts several jars of soup into a box. He goes to his room for his jacket and his cigarettes, then takes the box out to his car and gets in the driver’s seat. He blinks against the weariness from the alcohol, indifferent to the risks of driving drunk in the snow, and pulls out of the drive.

The sun begins to set as he reaches his parents’ house and when he goes inside, he finds Irina asleep in a chair, hands loose around a long-cold cup of coffee. His father shuffles from the bedroom into view, dragging his oxygen tank, and Wolfgang looks at him without expression.

Then he nudges Irina, who startles awake and looks up at him. She brightens and gets to her feet.

“I made you something to eat,” says Wolfgang quietly.

She frowns in confusion, peering into the box. “You...you did? You didn’t have to…”

He shakes his head firmly. “I wanted to.”

She blinks at him for a moment, suspicious, and then she asks softly, “Are you drunk? I thought you said you weren’t drinking anymore...”

Wolfgang debates. Lying that he never said this to her would only serve as another indication to her that her mind is slipping, but the truth may upset her even more.

“Did I tell you that?” he responds, then guides her towards the kitchen and continues before she can speak, “C’mere, have some soup…”

She sighs but doesn’t argue. Wolfgang divides one jar of soup into two bowls and Irina finds clean spoons. They stand close together, both eating, and don’t speak for a moment. Wolfgang keeps watch on Anton, who has silently taken a seat in front of the television.

“Mama,” says Wolfgang, softly so his father doesn’t overhear.

Irina looks up at him, anxious.

“I’m staying in Berlin for a while,” he tells her.

She slowly smiles. “You-- you are?” Then she beams. “Oh, that’s wonderful! Why?”

Wolfgang shrugs. “It’s quiet in Moscow right now.”

Irina nods and takes a cheerful bite of soup. “Good.” She cups his cheek quickly. “Thank you for the soup.”

Wolfgang watches her for a moment. “You seem better.”

Irina nods again. “I took one of those pills you gave me.”

Wolfgang presses his teeth together, reflecting on the bottle of sugar pills he gave her last month when he was here. He told her they were for anxiety.

He nods. “Uh, good, okay.”

They eat in silence for the next moment, and then Wolfgang stiffens as his father rises from in front of the television. Irina puts her soup down, watching, and Anton approaches them in the kitchen. After years of illness, the skin on his face is slack and greyish, and he has trembling jowls around his mouth.

Wolfgang regards him like a rabid dog. Despite his shrunken stature and muscle atrophy, he’s still capable of outbursts -- the bruises on Irina’s face prove this.

“What’s this?” he asks, shaking the box with the jars in it.

“It’s soup,” says Irina shortly.

Anton’s lip curls, looking between them.

“He’s more of a woman than you are,” Anton snarls to Irina. “Can’t even make dinner anymore, disgusting.”

He pats Wolfgang’s cheek to provoke him, and Wolfgang tenses and steps away, instantly nauseous.

“Don’t touch me,” he says in a quiet, cutting tone.

No one breathes for a moment, and then Anton swipes his hand over the counter and knocks Irina’s soup to the floor.

Irina covers her face and begins to cry. Wolfgang shoves Anton out of the kitchen and they struggle for a moment, until Wolfgang rips the oxygen cannula out of his father’s nose, lifts the tank, and hurls the device across the room. He shoves Anton so that he falls.

“Crawl for it, dirty pig,” he spits, and then he turns to his mother, who’s staring at him in fear and astonishment.

“You’re both drunk!” she hisses.

Wolfgang looks at his father again, fingers twitching toward the gun at his side, as Anton scrabbles across the dirty floor away from him.

 

_“In this house? In my house?”_

_Wolfgang backs up until he hits the wall. He closes his eyes as his father’s hand locks around his throat._

_“Stupid little bitch,” growls Anton. “You like boys? I’ll show you if you like boys…”_

 

Wolfgang breathes out hard, his hand closing over his gun, and then he lets it go abruptly. He meets his mother’s eyes, then takes his keys off the counter and leaves without another word.

***

Kala sleeps fitfully throughout the day and wakes around seven, startled by Ajay’s arrival. He sets his suitcase hard on the floor and looks at her as she sits up, flustered.

“Why are you sleeping?” he asks her.

“I -- I couldn’t sleep without you last night,” she says quickly.

He shakes his head in annoyance at this and kicks the suitcases to the side. Kala watches him warily and feels the clouds build, threatening to burst. She keeps her eyes on him as she slides her legs out of bed, as she stands and reaches for her robe.

“How was your trip?” she asks softly, the winter dusk pooling over her as she crosses the room to him.

“Uneventful,” he tells her, gaze lingering on her, hands pausing on his briefcase.

He sets it aside, then pulls her close and kisses her. He squeezes her waist hard after he pulls away and she places her hands neatly on his chest and cocks an eyebrow, relaxing slightly.

“What did you think of the boss?”

Ajay squints and shakes his head, unsure why she’s asking.

“I thought you would be...surprised,” admits Kala, hoping her tone is playful enough for him to forgive the inquiry.

“Why?” asks Ajay cautiously.

Kala frowns and tugs on his collar, intentionally flirtatious. “Well, I’m sure you’ve never worked with a woman…”

Ajay looks at her and she sees a gray curtain descend in his eyes. He swallows and nods too hard.

“She was what I expected,” he tells her.

Kala steps away, hands falling. She holds herself stiffly and murmurs, “Ajay?”

He looks down, jaw tense, and breathes out hard. When he speaks, his voice is harsh. “What?”

“You didn’t go to Moscow,” says Kala.

“No,” he says sharply, angry wrinkles forming around his mouth. “I went to St. Petersburg.”

“No,” breathes Kala.

He shoves her away. “The market is better there.”

Kala looks at him in betrayal and disbelief.

“Ajay, the Bogdanows _will_ kill us if they were to find out,” she whispers. “What were you thinking?”

“Shut up,” he snaps. “You have no right to question me, it is my business, not yours.”

Kala’s mouth goes dry as she searches for words that strike the right balance of doubt and respect. She slowly approaches him, wringing her fingers together.

“Ajay,” she says softly. “Ajay, Sergei believes you tell me everything, if he finds out you are trying to disadvantage the woman they work with in Moscow and enter the market in St. Petersburg, they will kill us both, I’m sure of it.”

Ajay snorts haughtily. “You’re sure of it? What do you know? By the time they find out, we will be long gone--”

“To where?” demands Kala angrily. “To Mumbai? You know I’m not that stupid!”

He slaps her in the face and she stumbles backward, clutching her cheek. He walks out of the room and slams the door behind him. She closes her eyes and breathes in slowly, backing up, and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. She touches her fingertips to the blood at the corner of her mouth, and then she looks at the door with an alarmed gasp as it opens.

Wolfgang comes inside and looks around, cautious. Then he crosses the room to Kala, sits next to her, and takes a cloth from his pocket.

She pulls her hands down from her face, eyes huge, and she stares at him. He wordlessly presses the cloth to the side of her mouth. Her eyes flicker in confusion and surprise.

“I heard him slap you,” he explains with a small shrug.

“Why...why does it matter to you?”

He shakes his head and pulls his hand away. She takes the cloth and dabs at her mouth as she watches him -- his gaze downcast, his mouth twisted in a cold smile.

“This is what I do,” he mutters bitterly. “This is what my life is for.”

“What?” she whispers.

He shakes his head again and doesn’t answer. Then he puts his hand on the side of her head, thumb brushing the skin behind her ear, and meets her eyes kindly. After this, he gets to his feet and leaves.

She stares into the empty hallway, bewildered by this exchange; then she looks at the cloth in her hands and clenches it, fiercely lonely.


	2. Let me dangle at a cruel angle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfgang takes a detour and discovers new information about Ajay. Kala plots her future as her allegiances change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the cringy Kala/Ajay scenes. Yack.

* * *

 

 _Sometimes you're half in and then you're half out_  
_But you never close the door_

 

Wolfgang shivers in the wind as he adjusts the sights of his rifle. He is encamped on the roof of an office building that fell out of use, and has been here in the cold for nearly two hours. His muscles are beginning to ache with the effort it takes to stay low and out of sight. He looks through his scope and the crosshairs center on the target-- one of Sebastian Fuchs’ brigadiers, who interfered at the shipping yard where they receive drugs from Mumbai.

Wolfgang is surprised Sergei didn’t direct Steiner to end the man’s life. He intercepted one of their shipments and stole drugs worth a total of nearly ten thousand dollars, and Sergei tends to send Steiner to punish transgressions of this size, given Steiner’s methodology isn’t as clean or quick as Wolfgang’s.

Wolfgang is satisfied with one distant shot, but Steiner, like the other men in his family, favors something lengthier.

“Fuck,” Wolfgang murmurs to himself as the target moves out of sight.

He shifts on his elbows, his front collecting dust and soot, and adjusts the rifle as the brigadier moves into another room. The brigadier spent most of the evening socializing with half-naked women and moving from room to room, pausing long enough to shoot only when one of the women was on his lap. Wolfgang knows Steiner would have taken the shot, but in his experience, dead call girls lead to trouble.

He pulls back slightly and rubs his hand over his face. His back is growing damp with sleet and he watches impatiently as the brigadier downs more liquor. He considers shooting out one of the windows and making the women disperse, leaving an opening to shoot the brigadier, but this would spook the brigadier as well, and he may be intelligent enough to get on the ground and stay there.

Wolfgang shakes his head in annoyance at the fact that Sergei refuses to entrust enforcement responsibilities to anyone other than him and Steiner. Fuchs, he knows, has an elite force of young men with nothing better to do than sharpshoot, but Sergei is reluctant to trust anyone outside the family. Wolfgang is sure he’d be a better King than his uncle, and he’s considered killing him and Steiner to accomplish this, but finding recruits would be a challenge after that -- even the most madcap young men in the city would be reluctant to trust a boss that murdered his family members without cause.

“For fuck’s sake,” mumbles Wolfgang as the brigadier begins to unbuckle his belt and beckons a prostitute closer.

But the woman pauses and moves out of range to take something off a table nearby. Wolfgang squints through his scope and sees she’s reached for a package of condoms. He snorts and takes the shot without hesitation. The brigadier drops like a pin and the women scatter in horror. Wolfgang quickly deconstructs his rifle, puts it into a case, and hurries off the rooftop.

He goes down the steps of the building two at a time, then puts his rifle in his car, exchanging it for a glock. He crosses the street to the apartments where he just shot the brigadier, then hides between a hedge and the wall of the building. He only has to wait a moment before several panicked women exit through the door, and he catches it while it’s still open and goes inside. The bellman begins to speak, and Wolfgang brings his gun down hard on his head, knocking him unconscious.

He continues to the elevators and drinks from his flask for a moment as they bear him up to the brigadier’s penthouse. Once there, he shoots the lock to disable it, then kicks the door open. He goes inside, intending to collect the brigadier’s body and deliver it to Fuchs as a warning, but he pauses at the quiet click of a silencer being applied to the barrel of a gun.

He throws himself to the other side of a wall and a bullet hisses past him. His eyes widen slightly as he considers his next move, hands tight on his pistol. He knew there was the possibility of an unseen security force, but he thought it was unlikely given Fuchs’ tendency to spare as few men as possible to someone of this rank.

He swallows, finger on the trigger of his gun, and steps around the corner, weapon outstretched. He shoots dead the first three men he sees, then hisses in pain, his arm stinging from the graze of a bullet. Blood pools through his shirt and he swears, then turns to face the assailant behind him. They exchange fire for a moment, with Wolfgang ducking behind tables and couches. The man moves in the shadows, and as he steps into view to lift his gun, Wolfgang risks standing and shoots him in the head.

He lets his gun fall to his side, breathing heavily. “Fuck.”

He looks around at the massacre, then touches his hand to his arm, which is bleeding profusely. He swears again, unsure how much blood he’ll lose in the time it takes to transport the brigadier's body to Fuchs’ mansion in the south of the city. His gaze lingers on the hole in the brigadier’s temple, and then he shakes his head slightly, scrapping the plan.

He goes into the bedroom of the apartment, rips a section off the sheets, and ties the fabric hard around his arm. Then he leaves down the service staircase, alarm blaring as he presses the no-exit door to the alley open. He sprints back to his car, mind raging as he considers the consequences of leaving five bodies in an upscale Mitte apartment. He flings himself into the driver’s seat, closing his eyes, and slowly exhales. He fights a wave of nausea, sick from the pain, then picks up his phone and dials Sergei.

Sergei answers in a flat tone.

“There were more men than I expected, I had to leave them there,” says Wolfgang.

Sergei sighs. “All dead?”

“Yes,” confirms Wolfgang.

“Fine,” says Sergei. “I’ll send some Shestyorka.”

Wolfgang questions the wisdom of sending the lowest associates to dispose of five bodies in an apartment with cameras and security, but he’s too disaffected to argue.

“Tell them the police will be there,” he says.

“Obviously,” snaps Sergei.

Wolfgang hangs up, then takes a moment to hold his arm, grit his teeth, and prepare to drive. Felix’s apartment is almost fifteen minutes away, and the mansion is even farther. He leans his head back on his seat, eyes seeking the rearview, and an ill-advised idea comes to him. He glances to his right, in the direction of Wiesenstraße, and closes his eyes as his mind fixates on the address. 

His arm throbs with renewed pain and he sticks the key in the ignition.

“Fuck,” he mutters, giving in.

He turns the key and drives with one hand towards Memorial Park, teeth clenched. He skirts the park, then turns under an S-Bahn bridge and parks alongside a series of trees which are decorated with white lights for Christmas. He stares at the tiny address on the door to the apartment and hesitates; then he winces and his doubts fade. He throws his door open, gets out into the cold, and walks up to the apartment.

He knocks, and after a pause, a handsome young man wearing a CIA tee-shirt and slippers opens it. He looks at Wolfgang without speaking for a moment.

Then he dips his head down and says, “This is not what I wanted to do tonight.”

“All I need is some hot water and a bandage,” says Wolfgang quietly. “Your place was closer than Felix’s.”

Will nods slowly and looks up with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s why you’re here? My place was closer?”

Wolfgang gestures impatiently at his arm. “Can I come in?”

Will glances over his shoulder as a police car wails by. He nods at it. “That have something to do with you?”

But before Wolfgang can answer, Will opens the door wider and steps back so he can come inside.

“Thank you,” says Wolfgang softly as he passes him.

“What happened?” asks Will as he shuts and locks the door.

Wolfgang shakes his head. “Miscalculated.” He looks around the familiar apartment -- a studio, with a couch at the foot of the bed, facing a large television; a small, clean kitchen with a bowl of apples on the counter; a weight set in the corner. It smells like coffee and lemons, like it used to.

Wolfgang glances at a new painting -- a replication of a Rothko, three squares in shades of blue. He points at it.

“What’s that supposed to be? Boxes?”

“Fuck off,” sighs Will.

Wolfgang circles back, still looking around. Will walks up to him impatiently and pulls his hand away from his arm.

“How bad?” he asks.

“I didn’t look,” admits Wolfgang. “I thought it grazed me but I could be wrong.”

Will raises his eyebrows and goes to tug at the strip of fabric Wolfgang tied around his arm, but Wolfgang takes a step back, apprehensive.

“Just -- just get me a cloth, I’ll take care of it,” Wolfgang says haltingly.

Will looks at him expressionlessly, then laughs without humor and shakes his head. “Right.”

Will walks into the kitchen and Wolfgang glances over his shoulder at him, fighting a twinge of self-reproach. Then he shakes his head softly and sits on the couch, which has been updated since the last time he was here. He looks at the television, which is playing a soccer match on mute, and to his left at a half-finished beer and a dish of popcorn. He’s about to joke that Will is having a boring Saturday night, but he stops himself, remembering how many Saturdays they spent exactly like this.

He breathes out, resting his elbows on his knees, and clasps his fingers. Will comes back after a moment with a dish of hot water, a cloth, and a first aid kit. Wolfgang looks at him, slightly softer, and unwraps the fabric around his bicep.

“Where did it hit?” asks Will, scrutinizing the mess of blood.

“About six inches too far left to end all this shit for me,” says Wolfgang, wrinkling his nose as he pulls the fabric away. He yanks the back of his sweater up and takes it off, then glances at his bicep. “Oh, fuck…”

“You said it grazed you,” says Will, glancing into his eyes quickly before reaching for the cloth.

“I thought it did,” mumbles Wolfgang. He exhales heavily. “I was in too much pain for that, though…”

“Which you ignored, like you always do,” mutters Will, drenching the cloth with water and handing it to Wolfgang. “Are you sure you don’t--”

“I’ll do it,” snaps Wolfgang, taking the cloth.

He rubs it over the wound on his arm, grimacing, letting out a big breath all at once after a moment.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” he whispers, closing his eyes. He thrusts the cloth blindly into Will’s hand. “Fine.” Then he holds up a hand, lifts to reach into his back pocket for his flask, and takes a long drink from it. “Okay.”

Will shakes his head gently in pity and Wolfgang sulks at him.

“I get to look at you however I want,” says Will in annoyance. “Who shows up at their ex’s house at one a.m. with a GSW? Fuck, Wolfgang...”

Wolfgang tilts his head down and his jaw tightens at the touch of the cloth.

“I didn’t get shot near your apartment on purpose.”

“I wouldn’t put that past you.”

Wolfgang shakes his head. “I don’t need an excuse to see you. I come here when I want to.”

“At least the bullet went through,” mumbles Will, adding, “how is your mom?”

“No,” says Wolfgang.

“Glad to hear that,” mutters Will.

Wolfgang looks down and tries to ignore his ex’s frustrating tendency to open old communication patterns.

He clenches his fist as Will douses the wound with hydrogen peroxide, holding his breath as it fizzes and stings. He closes his eyes again, asking himself why he didn’t call Felix to pick him up, why he gave into the urge to see Will without considering the consequences.

He’s sure if he wasn’t injured, he’d wake up here tomorrow - that's what happened on the other occasions he showed up in the middle of the night. He hasn’t decided if it’s weakness or simple desire that occasionally draws him here. Either way, the urge frightens him.

He yanks his arm away from Will after a moment and takes some medical wrap out of the first-aid kit. He pads his bicep with gauze, then holds it in place with the wrap, tugging it taut at the end. Then he cracks his knuckles, drinks from his flask again, and looks at Will with heavy eyes.

Will looks back guardedly, then asks, “How’s Ajay Kapoor?”

Wolfgang stares, then nips at his upper lip and lets his gaze drift to the floor. “My uncle is an idiot…”

“Yeah,” agrees Will.

“Fuck,” murmurs Wolfgang, adding, “he’s a coward.”

“Kapoor?” checks Will.

Wolfgang nods, massaging the knuckles of one hand with his opposite hand. He looks ahead in thought, then back at Will.

“Planning on arresting him?” asks Wolfgang.

Will snorts. “Does that sound like something I would tell you?”

Wolfgang looks away with an empty chuckle. “No. Worth a try.”

Will packs up the first aid supplies for a moment, then reaches across Wolfgang for his beer and drinks some. He leans back on the couch.

“Why’s he a coward?” he asks, brow flickering.

Wolfgang gets up. “I’m going home.”

Will studies his expression before speaking. “Fine, don’t talk, but I know you didn’t come here just because it was closer.”

“This time I did,” says Wolfgang dully.

Will shakes his head. “You have something going on.”

Wolfgang knows this is accurate, but if pressed to say what is specifically wrong, he’s unsure if he could identify it. He stays quiet and pulls his bloodied shirt off the couch.

“Don’t,” Will says, stopping his hand. “Hold on.”

He gets up and goes towards the wardrobe next to his bed. Wolfgang watches him as he pulls out a black sweater and shakes it out of its neat fold.

“I’m not wearing your clothes,” Wolfgang says flatly.

“Shut up, Wolfgang,” answers Will.

He comes back and hands it over, and Wolfgang reluctantly pulls it over his head. He sets his jaw against the wave of familiar scent.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” says Will.

Wolfgang yanks his jacket off the couch, puts it on, and picks up his old shirt. He looks at Will with hesitation and reluctance. Then he gives a small shake of his head, eyes downcast, and turns.

“See you around,” says Will dully.

Wolfgang leaves without responding.

***

Kala shifts her legs under the covers in bed, rubbing them together for warmth as she makes notes in the margin of her textbook. She adjusts the lamp on the bedside table, then reaches for her tea and drinks it needily. Despite a roaring fire on the hearth, she’s freezing, but she tells herself this is good because it will keep her awake. She pencils in a note (pulmonary semilunar valve) next to her sketch of the human heart.

In Mumbai last year, she flirted with one of Ajay’s doctor friends until he offered her a few medical textbooks. She’s gone through them methodically since them, reading and rereading, determined to be able to support herself one day.

Her vague promise of _one day_ has recently grown more specific. _This year_ , she tells herself.

She circles the pulmonary artery and jots down to lungs, and then stuffs the book and her pencil under the bed at the sound of footsteps outside the door. She pulls her knees up to her chest and sips her tea, waiting, and Ajay comes in after unlocking the door.

“Why is this locked?” he asks.

Kala swallows and admits after a moment, “Steiner frightens me.”

Ajay nods and begins to take off his suit coat.

“Well, you have nothing to be afraid of when I’m here,” he says.

Kala watches him with dark eyes as he prepares for bed, toes digging into the mattress, anxious. He goes into the bathroom to splash his face with water, and when he returns, he sits close to her in bed and tucks her hair behind her ears. She meets his eyes, cold, and pulls her hands instinctively away.

“I know, I know,” he says, cupping her face. “I’m very sorry. I lost my temper.”

Kala shakes with subdued rage.

“I was very tired, I thought you were doubting me,” he goes on, thumbing over her brow. “I’m sorry.” He brushes his thumb over the bruise on her cheek. “You are so beautiful, and I spoiled that.”

Kala looks down to avoid his gaze. She focuses on her heartbeat to steady herself.

“Here,” he says, getting to his feet and going to his coat on the back of the chair nearby. He pulls out a small, flat box and returns to the bed. He takes a delicate emerald necklace out of the box and fastens it around Kala's neck. “For you, Kala…”

She swallows hard and forces herself to smile at him. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

“You deserve more,” he says.

“No,” she whispers. “No, that isn’t true…”

She has had this exact conversation more times than she can recall. At first, the apologies and gifts were in response to a period of silence or an insult; at first, he never hit her. She was with him a year before he crossed that line, and though she knows that their relationship was built on coercion and fear, she told herself she should be grateful he wasn’t violent towards her. When this changed, she told herself she should be grateful he only hit her when she provoked him.

She tries to avoid early memories. She interpreted his tendency to spoil her as love; she interpreted his flattery as kindness. She knows now these behaviors were careful traps. A night out dancing, one more thread of silk wrapped around her; an earnest conversation over drinks, another thread; a heartfelt comment about her family, and she was wound up completely.

She trusted him blindly by the time he took her to bed the first time, and when he told her it was the least she could do, she agreed despite being afraid. And the first time he hit her, she was sure she deserved it, because he had convinced her, months prior, that he was a good man; that she was wrong by default; that she shouldn’t object to his authority, because that’s the natural order of things.

Her faith in him began to chip only when she considered, on a rainy night when she was alone in their flat, that he met her when she was sixteen; that he was twenty-eight at the time; that she had no experience to inform her what a healthy relationship is.

She realized that night, with disgust and panic, that he made the rules himself; that he created his own reality; that his perspective was invalid on its face.

After that night, it was as though her trust was wine in a slowly-leaking cask. Tonight, two years later, the last droplets are dribbling out.

She touches her fingers to the emerald necklace and smiles subserviently at him.

He takes her chin in his fingers and kisses her, and she closes her eyes, unmoving, waiting. He tastes like liquor, as she expected, and she sets her jaw as he moves his hand up the front of her body. He tilts and kisses the side of her neck roughly, and she stares over his shoulder, hands limp at her sides. She blinks, drums playing in her head, taunting her; she’s unsure if she has the emotional fortitude to sleep with him tonight, so she pulls away.

“Ajay?” she murmurs to interrupt him. “Ajay, you know that I wasn’t doubting you, right?”

He pulls back, brow furrowed. “Yes, of course.”

She takes a breath and slides her hands up his chest. She smiles, kisses him, and tilts her head flirtatiously.

“You know I was just worried, right?” she goes on.

He nods. “Of course.” Then he exhales and shifts next to her, leaning back on the pillows. She breathes out in relief. He rests his hand on the top of her thigh and looks at her. “I know that going to St. Petersburg was a risk.”

“What are you going to tell Sergei if he asks you how your trip was?” she whispers.

He shakes his head slightly and reaches for his cigarettes on the side table. He lights up and takes a drag.

“I’ll tell him there was a problem with my flight and I never made it,” he says.

Kala nods unsurely. “They have a good relationship with the boss in Moscow...she wouldn’t protect you for any reason. And she...well, she’s at war with the boss in St. Petersburg. Ajay, is this...worth it?”

He shrugs and smokes. “The market in St. Petersburg is far superior, and I would rather work with Fuchs.”

“Fuchs?” queries Kala.

“He’s the one who works with St. Petersburg,” explains Ajay. “His method is much cleaner. This family is…” He waves his hand in frustration. “There is too much personal conflict, not enough discipline. Nothing but trouble.”

“You’ve worked with the Bogdanows for years,” murmurs Kala.

He snorts. “From afar.” He shakes his head bitterly and flicks the ash off his cigarette. “Already I feel I am being lied to. I don’t trust any of them, particularly not that young one.”

Kala stiffens. She slept soundly after talking to Wolfgang on the roof. Her heart jumps at the thought of their conversation, at the memory of his weather-beaten hand on the flask they were sharing.

Ajay puts his cigarette out, softening slightly, and squeezes her leg. “But do not worry. I will contact Moscow soon, and say that the Bogdanows have plans to transfer their business to St. Petersburg. That will ensure conflict between the two families...and it will distract them so I can partner with Dolokhov. Before you know it, we will be allied with him and Fuchs, and we will wealthier than you can imagine.”

Kala looks at her husband for a moment, confident he won’t live through this scheme, unsure if she will.

But she smiles and nods. “Of course. I’m never worried when I’m with you.”

***

Wolfgang knocks tiredly on his brother’s door, head almost connecting with the wood. It’s nearly two thirty and the snow has worsened. He pounds after getting no response, and a moment later, Felix appears in the doorway, looking like home -- scrawny, bleary-eyed, and unkempt, but home nonetheless.

His eyes widen in surprise. “Fucking finally!”

Wolfgang gives half a smile and nods. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I thought you’d come straight here after Moscow, the fuck, man?” asks Felix, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him out of the snow.

“I meant to, but things with my mother…”

Felix nods sympathetically. “Yeah.” He frowns as Wolfgang comes into the light of the entryway. “Hey, you look like shit, what happened?”

Wolfgang hesitates, then gestures at his left arm, which is throbbing as if it’s going to burst. “Miscalculated.”

Wolfgang shakes his head gently at Felix’s questioning gaze and guides him towards the disheveled kitchen in the back of the shop.

“I need a drink,” Wolfgang says, sitting at the chipped linoleum table. He leans his elbow on the surface, burying half his head in his palm, exhausted. “Vodka’s fine.”

“I have some pot,” replies Felix.

He nods. “Yeah, fine.”

Felix opens a cabinet next to the fridge and takes out an old coffee canister. He yawns hugely, adjusting one of the lights above the stove, and sits by Wolfgang. He takes a tin of buds out of the canister and gives it to Wolfgang with some rolling papers.

Wolfgang shakes his head.

“Why not?” asks Felix. “You’re better at rolling these than I am…”

Wolfgang gestures gingerly with his injured arm and shakes his head again, lips tight, mouth beginning to grow dry due to pain.

“That bad?” asks Felix. “What happened?”

Wolfgang presses his thumb and index finger into each eye briefly. “I was settling something with one of Fuchs’ men, didn’t realize how many were there.”

Felix stares for a moment, and then he asks quietly, “Did you get shot? Fuck, Wolfie, again?”

“Didn’t mean to,” says Wolfgang with raised eyebrows.

Felix shakes his head and pulls the weed and papers across the table. He rolls a messy-but-usable blunt and hands it to Wolfgang with a lighter. Then he gets up, squeezes Wolfgang’s shoulder as he passes him, and clunks around in the sink for a moment. He cleans a mug, then sticks it in the microwave with fresh water.

Wolfgang closes his eyes, smokes, and listens to the whir of the microwave, the click of the off-kilter plate inside. He breathes in deeply, resisting the urge to find something stronger than pot and spend the next forty-eight hours passed out. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth to stave off a wave of nausea.

After a moment, Felix slides a mug in front of him -- lemon water with vodka, Mama Berner’s remedy for any ailment. He nods in thanks and takes a drink.

“You looked cold,” says Felix in explanation.

Wolfgang snorts. “Yeah. Fuck Berlin.”

He passes the blunt to Felix, who pauses and squints before taking a drag. After he breathes the smoke out, he looks intently at his brother.

“If it was that bad, why aren’t you bleeding all over?”

Wolfgang breathes in. “Because I cleaned myself up.”

“You’re such a shit liar,” says Felix affectionately, handing the blunt back.

Wolfgang shifts in his seat and meets Felix’s eyes as he takes a drag, relaxing at the effect of the drugs in his blood. He shrugs gently.

“I was in Mitte, so--”

Felix interrupts with a groan. “Oh, fuck, tell me you didn’t do what I think you did…”

Wolfgang bites his bottom lip, gaze drifting, and shakes his head slowly. “His apartment was right there…”

Felix groans again and stares at him with wide, frustrated eyes. “Did anything happen?”

“No,” says Wolfgang, perturbed.

Felix snorts. “Don’t say that like I didn’t have a reason to ask. Fuck, man…” He starts to laugh. “You don’t think you put him through enough shit before?”

“He still lets me in,” mumbles Wolfgang.

“Yeah, he still loves you, you shithead,” says Felix, shaking his head and taking the blunt back. “Fuck, man, you’ve got to stop getting his hopes up.”

They pass the blunt back and forth in silence for the next few minutes. Wolfgang stares out the window at the snow which glows the color of apricots in the flickering street light. He takes in the scene -- teenagers stumble, laughing, away from a club across the street; an S-Bahn train wings past, the destination blinking on the side of it in orange letters; the wind intensifies, throwing flurries of snow into the air.

He thinks inexplicably of Kala and hopes she’s safe, and then he shakes his head to disrupt the thought and gestures at Felix with the blunt.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “This is helping.”

Then his phone rings and he glances at it. He breathes out heavily, holds a hand up at Felix, and answers. “What? It’s late here.”

“It’s later here,” says Lila, voice silky. “I need you to meet with everyone tomorrow. I’ve made my decision about Dolokhov.”

“What is it?” asks Wolfgang, lifting his drink to his lips.

“I’m done with him,” says Lila in a clipped tone. “I’ll require cooperation from your family, perhaps even some of your men.”

Wolfgang nods. “Okay. That all?”

“Yes,” she says.

“What did you think of Ajay Kapoor?” he asks.

A pause. “What?”

“Kapoor,” Wolfgang says impatiently. “The man who met with you.”

“No one met with me,” says Lila after another charged pause.

Wolfgang glances warily at Felix, then at his hand on the table, still clenched due to the pain in his arm. He stretches his fingers slowly, thinking of Kala, then drinks.

“No one met with you?” he asks, voice quiet.

“What’s going on?” demands Lila.

“I’m not sure,” Wolfgang says slowly. “He said he flew to Moscow to meet you.”

Lila clicks her tongue. “He’s lying.”

Wolfgang nods, shoulders suddenly heavy with dread. “Fuck. Okay. I’ll fix it.”

“I don’t need another problem,” says Lila softly. “Dolokhov is enough.”

“I understand,” murmurs Wolfgang.

He hangs up and sets his phone down hard on the table, eyes blank as he stares outside. He brings his hands together, one over the other, squeezing, and then leans forward, elbows braced on the table. He shakes his head slightly, calculating.

He can think of few alternatives. If Ajay wasn’t in Moscow, and wasn’t welcome in Mumbai, the most logical possibility is St. Petersburg. He recalls Sergei mentioning Ajay’s frustration with the size of the Moscow market, and he’s sure Ajay is the kind of man who fights for more without consideration of the consequences. He breathes out. His uncle punishes double-crossing without mercy. Whether or not Kala knows what her husband does, Sergei will consider her an accomplice.

Felix looks worriedly at Wolfgang. “Wolfie?”

Wolfgang shakes his head again.  
  
“Wolfie, what’s going on in Moscow?”

Wolfgang shrugs and forces his voice to be steady. “Not a lot. Lila had a few operatives killed in St. Petersburg last week and she’s thinking about going for Dolokhov.”

“The boss himself, whoa,” murmurs Felix. “That’s what you call not a lot?”

Wolfgang shrugs again and says, “Nothing new. It’s getting worse. She’s tired of St. Petersburg dominating the market.”

Felix nods slowly and, after a moment, Wolfgang starts to laugh and shake his head.

“Why the fuck do we spend our lives like this, Felix?”

Felix snorts and takes the blunt back. “You sure you want to start thinking about that, Wolfie?”

Wolfgang looks at the old linoleum table and continues to laugh. “Could have left.”

“You’d never leave Berlin,” says Felix.

Wolfgang lifts his gaze and looks outside again, watching the wheels of a car spin in place on the snow.

“You’re not a coward like that,” adds Felix.

Wolfgang takes the blunt from Felix. “Admitting this is shit doesn’t make me a coward.” He fixates on the spinning wheel outside for a moment and reflects on his irrational belief that Berlin is his air; that if he leaves the city, he’ll gasp for breath and jump back in, whether he wants to or not. He shakes his head and murmurs, “Something’s wrong.”

“What?” asks Felix, voice tinged with fear.

“I don’t know yet,” says Wolfgang as he extinguishes the blunt and reaches for his drink.

***

Kala adjusts her tight-fitting black dress and fluffs her hair in the mirror, listening to the buzz of voices below her. She sniffs and touches up her lipstick, anxious to be within hearing distance of the meeting. Sergei and Wolfgang gathered all of their men for an impromptu party, and Kala heard a hushed murmur of the name “Dolokhov.” She tensed and hasn’t relaxed since -- Ajay has never taken a risk of this size or weathered a lie this large. She’s unsure, over the course of a party with liquor flowing freely, if he’ll succeed in being secretive.

She puts on some sapphire earrings and clasps a matching bracelet. Then she takes her heels from her suitcase, but hesitates before putting them on.

She glances at the doorway to her right, fixating on the indiscernible mumbles of the men below. Then she sets her heels aside and walks into the hall, gaze fixed, mouth straight. She walks down the hall, determined, and tiptoes down the stairs. She slips into the kitchen, which borders the den, and presses close to the door, listening intently.

If Ajay catches her, she’s sure he’ll punish her so that she remembers, but he’s clearly underestimated his own stupidity on this matter. She huffs, pressing her ear to the crack of the door.

“--obviously require coordination and we must be aware of the eyes he has in Berlin,” Sergei is saying.

“Why isn’t the Facchini bitch taking care of this herself?” growls an unfamiliar voice.

“It affects us, mudak,” says Wolfgang irritably. “She’s helped us before.”

Kala assumes _mudak_ isn’t a polite word based on the snarl of anger from the other man. She smirks slightly, pressing closer.

“Who will replace Dolokhov?” asks another voice. “Pavlov?”

“No, Nikolaev,” says Wolfgang.

“Nikolaev?” asks Steiner. “My ass, he’s no Pavlov--”

An irritable exchange in Russian follows and Kala waits. There is a pause after this, filled with the sound of glasses being set down and more liquor being distributed.

Then Sergei asks, “Did Facchini mention her intentions to you, Ajay?”

Kala stops breathing and she squints through the crack in the door. She takes in the image of twenty-odd men around a long table. The men, all men, are smoking like the world is about to end and regarding each other like truculent bulldogs. Her gaze settles on Wolfgang, who is looking down. She sees the bump of his jawbone, signaling that he’s tense, and notices that he’s holding his left arm as if it aches. She lingers on him for a moment before looking at Ajay, who is twitchy.

She frowns, looking again at Wolfgang. She sees him take a breath, look up, and prepare to speak before Ajay has the chance. But he stops himself, grimacing, and lifts his drink to his mouth.

“We -- we did not,” says Ajay. “My flight was canceled."

Kala’s eyes flash from him to Wolfgang once more, and she watches as he shakes his head, melancholic. She breathes in hard, unsettled by the possibility that he knows what Ajay did, confused why he would protect him.

Then her fingers tighten unconsciously on the doorframe and her heart swells. If he knows, he isn’t protecting Ajay -- he’s protecting her, and this possibility is too much for her to bear. Her teeth cut into her bottom teeth as she stares at the men.

Sergei nods at Ajay’s response. “That's unfortunate. Enough, bring in the girls.”

Kala springs away from the door and races upstairs. She slams the door to her room and sits on the bed, panting. She quickly fans herself, eyes closed, and then she slides on her heels, praying she doesn’t appear sweaty to Ajay.

The door opens after only a few seconds, and Ajay looks at her expectantly.

“You can come downstairs now,” he tells her.

“The party is starting?” she asks.

He nods and beckons her with an impatient wave. She smiles as if she’s excited and quickly crosses the room to him. He looks her over and his mouth twitches.

“You can hardly complain if the other men look at you,” he tells her.

She presses her teeth together hard, then says as respectfully as she can manage, “Would you like me to wear something else?”

He chuckles and pulls her closer, gaze growing hungry. He drags his fingers over her cleavage, then turns her and pushes her ahead of him, gripping her ass briefly. “No.”

She swallows and says, “Okay.”

“Smile,” he tells her, putting an arm around her waist as they walk down the hall.

“Okay,” she repeats, gaze trained on the staircase ahead.

They walk downstairs and turn into the den. The table has been pulled to the side, and the space is now occupied by the men, drinks in hand, and their wives and girlfriends. Kala notices several single women as well, who the men are eyeing posessively.

She looks at Wolfgang, who is nursing a vodka near the fire. He briefly meets her eyes, stony, and then watches the flames. She swallows her panic and tries to smile when Sergei approaches her and Ajay.

“Mrs. Kapoor, stunning as usual,” he says as he hands her a glass of wine.

Kala exhales hard through her nose. “Thank you.”

“I don’t think you’ve been acquainted with my nephew? Wolfgang!”

Kala’s eyes widen and Wolfgang glances at his uncle from across the den. He slowly approaches, vigilant, and sips his drink.

“We, we uh, met briefly,” says Kala, nodding at him.

He nods too. “In the hallway when I got back.”

She tongues over her bottom lip, staring, and confirms in a shaky voice, “Yes.”

“Ah, good,” says Sergei, putting an arm around Wolfgang’s shoulders and squeezing him with a sneer. “He’ll be King one day, fitting for Anton’s son.”

He pats Wolfgang’s arm and Kala sees him wince, but he says nothing.

Sergei releases him and drinks his wine. Kala notices Wolfgang’s fists clench slightly as he glances sideways at his uncle, but still, he says nothing.

“You may have heard,” says Sergei, gesturing drunkenly, “that my brother has lung cancer, and considering he was King before me, it is only right that the honor passes to Wolfgang.” He shakes his head, chuckling, and lifts his cigar to his mouth. “But I have a while, yet, and Wolfgang may do something that changes my mind…”

Wolfgang drinks, mouth twisting as he pulls his glass away.

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother,” says Ajay.

Sergei holds up a hand and shakes his head.

“And your father,” Ajay adds to Wolfgang.

Wolfgang’s expression remains unchanged, but Kala sees his eyes flicker with wrath.

“It was inevitable,” he says, just as he takes his cigarettes from his pocket.

Kala senses the irony of this is intentional. She looks at Wolfgang with new curiosity as he lights his cigarette and takes a drag.

“Ignore my nephew,” says Sergei.

Wolfgang gives a modest shake of his head and smirks. Kala watches him for another moment, intrigued by his sardonic apathy.

He catches her watching and looks at her with a warning flash in his eyes, telling her that her gaze reveals too much. She looks away quickly, and then Steiner approaches, head tilted back as he drains his vodka. He takes a new glass off the table to the side, steps up to the group, and leers at Kala for a moment. Then he looks at Wolfgang in dislike.

“You’re going to Moscow then? Tomorrow?”

Wolfgang nods.

“What about your mother?” asks Steiner, laughing, intoxicated. “Did you make her enough soup? Fucking fairy…” He continues to chuckle, then gestures at Ajay and says, “Don’t worry about my cousin, he looks at a woman like your wife and doesn’t even think about it.”

No one speaks for a moment. Kala stands still, eyes wide, chest rising and falling.

Then Wolfgang looks at Ajay with narrowed eyes. “He’s implying he’d fuck your wife.”

Ajay shrugs and finishes his drink. “He’s clearly drunk.”

“Implying,” sneers Steiner. “The only thing I was implying…” He slings his arm around Wolfgang’s shoulders. “Is that you don’t have a dick in your pants. And if you do, it’s never been in a pussy--”

Wolfgang shoves Steiner away from him and punches him in the face. The sound of the impact cracks like an explosion and Kala jumps back, steadying herself on Ajay. The rest of the group gasps collectively and turns to watch.

Steiner staggers backward and wipes the blood from his mouth. He bares his teeth and yells, “That a soft spot of yours, eh Wolfie?”

“You chickenshit cunt,” says Wolfgang, voice deadly low.

Steiner tries to land a blow, but Wolfgang twists his arm and pushes him backward. He reaches for his gun and Wolfgang laughs in his face.

“Try it,” he snarls.

Steiner hesitates, then huffs, wipes his mouth again, and stalks out of the den. Wolfgang straightens his shirt, massages his bicep, and picks up his drink as if nothing happened.

“Nice to meet you,” he says pointedly to Kala before walking away.

Ajay clicks his tongue in annoyance and leaves to get him and Kala more to drink. Kala looks after Wolfgang with mild trepidation.Sergei shakes his head, amused, and drinks.

“I apologize," he says. "The men in this family tend to be hot-blooded.”

Kala soothes herself by toying with her bracelet. She swallows. “Forgive me, but...his mother? Is she ill too?”

“In the head,” says Sergei with an uncaring scoff.

Kala nods nervously, lips tight, reluctant to learn more. Ajay returns with a new glass of wine for her and she glugs half of it. She looks across the room at Wolfgang, overwrought, but he doesn’t meet her gaze. She drinks more wine and Ajay slides an arm around her waist.

“Why don’t I introduce you to my brigadier?” suggests Sergei, gesturing at a middle-aged man near the fire.

They nod and spend the rest of the evening meeting Sergei’s men.

After an hour, Kala notices Wolfgang whisper something to one of the single women and watches them leave together. She swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and tries to focus on the current conversation with Sergei. It's about trouble with customs officials and is in broken German and Russian. She perceives very little of it, and finds herself nodding, smiling, clinging to Ajay so none of the men attempt to touch her.

After several glasses of wine, she’s listless and exhausted, mind replaying the altercation. _Chickenshit_. She’s unclear on the definition. _Soft spot_ \-- that one, she knows. She tries to swallow her misgivings as she and Ajay climb the stairs. She tries to remove from her mind the fact that Wolfgang is going to Moscow, into a trap Ajay set.

Ajay opens the door to their room and nudges her inside. He locks the door, then presses her against it and kisses her hard. She breathes out, sinking in her mind to the grey expanse she exists in when she’s intimate with him. The wine helps. Her mind accepts the fiction that she wants him too; her body puts up less of an instinctive protest.

She sinks to her knees after a moment and looks up at him. He tugs her hair, urging her to hurry. Later, when he’s inside of her, her eyes seek the ceiling and she thinks of Mumbai to distract herself-- the discordant streets, the heat. Then she thinks inadvertently of Wolfgang, of his hands and the veins on his forearms. She breathes in at the unbidden sensation of pleasure when she replaces Ajay with him in her mind, and then her eyes seesaw wildly, frightened by this discovery.

She closes her eyes hard and puts her arms around Ajay's shoulders, but in her mind they are Wolfgang's; she tries to remind herself she's under her husband, that she shouldn't feel any enjoyment, but the fantasy is effective and difficult to escape from. She's sure she'll feel ashamed afterward, but she can't help distracting herself now that she's discovered this strategy. She's never tried picturing another man, because she's never found one she particularly wanted to picture.

Ajay rolls off of her when he's done. She puts a hand over her forehead, buzzing with unexpected satisfaction, and he lights a cigarette. She stares at the ceiling again, detached from herself. She’s sure her body exists separately from her soul, because she can’t feel it.

She turns on her side and watches Ajay smoke for a moment. He chuckles as he breathes smoke out.

“I spoke with Facchini this morning,” he says.

“Oh?” mumbles Kala, uninterested.

“I told her what I mentioned to you,” he goes on. "That the Bogdanows plan to move their business to St. Petersburg.”

“Oh,” says Kala.

Ajay snorts. “That nephew? He’ll never survive the trip now.”

“Oh,” says Kala. Then her eyes widen and she inhales sharply. Her gaze flashes from Ajay’s profile, to the cigarette in his hand, to the window and the ice outside.

“She told you that? The boss?”

Ajay shrugs. “How could he? She believes they are going to betray her…”

Kala blinks rapidly. Then she forces herself to nod. “Of course…”

Ajay chuckles again, then turns and drags his touch over her shoulder. He raises his eyebrows in satisfaction at the sight of her naked, captive, unmoving. He touches her lips briefly, then pats her ass and turns over, and she lies awake, staring at the back of his neck.

She exhales through her nose after a moment of holding her breath. When she perceives a snore, she gets to her feet and puts on her robe. She presses her palms to her eyes, then puts her fingers through her hair and walks out of the room.

She pauses in front of Wolfgang’s door. Then she breathes out and knocks hard.

***

Wolfgang lifts his head up from his bed and glances at his door, then at the nameless woman sleeping next to him. He nudges her and she grumbles.

“You have to go,” he mumbles, getting up and searching for his boxers.

He screws his eyes shut as the blood rushes out of his head and he steadies himself on a table. Then he spots his boxers on the floor and puts them on. The woman he brought to bed hastily gets dressed, scowling at him for kicking her out, and hurries to the door.

She opens it and goes out, and he stares at Kala, silhouetted by the light from the window on the other side of the hall. She looks after the departing woman with distaste, then at Wolfgang.

“What?” he asks, irritated that she interrupted his sleep.

“You can’t go to Moscow tomorrow,” she whispers.

He dips his head down, tonguing over his top teeth, arms braced on either side of the door. He shakes his head, exhausted, and blinks. Then he pulls her inside by her arm and shuts the door. He turns on a light and pours two helpings of vodka at the bar on the side of the room.

When he hands her a glass, he sees her eyes are stormy.

“You know I know, let’s cut the shit,” he says in a clipped tone.

“H-how--”

“I’ve worked with Lila for years. Your husband didn’t expect us to talk about his visit?”

Kala sips the vodka and averts her eyes. Wolfgang studies her closely. He’s unsure if she failed to think her fear through or if she was naive enough to think he was in real danger of falling into her husband’s ill-judged plot. Either way, he’s surprised she found the nerve to leave bed and talk to him in the middle of the night.

He watches her eyes flicker from his face to the bandage around his arm, but she doesn’t mention it. He sees her gaze harden slightly.

“Why didn’t you tell your uncle?” she asks very quietly.

He raises his eyebrows, almost scoffing. “Because I didn’t want him to shoot you in the head?”

“Why?” she demands.

“Because you have nothing to do with any of this. Get out of here. I did you a favor--”

“Why are you angry?” she whispers heatedly. “I -- I wasn’t sure you knew! I was trying to keep you from getting hurt!”

“Why?” he asks. When she looks down, silent, he adds, “I know what you’re risking to tell me this. Why would you risk that?”

She shakes her head for a long time and his brow twitches as he watches her. He looks from her smudged lipstick to her robe, which she’s clearly wearing nothing under, to her clenched fingers. He reflects on her husband’s grip on her all evening.

“You can’t say no?” he murmurs.

“What do you think?” she breathes, adding quickly, “Why would I tell you?” She swallows and changes the subject. “I don’t want anyone to die. I don’t want you to die. Ajay said Lila would kill you.” She buries her face briefly in her hands, and when she looks up, her eyes catch his arm again; she studies it for a moment. “What did you do?”

“Got shot, it’s fine--”

She sighs. “Wolfgang.”

Wolfgang, the W pronounced incorrectly, her breath soft, fading. _Wolfgang_. He drinks it in.

“I’m fine,” he says carefully. “Go to bed before he--”

“Are you sure?” she breathes. “Are you sure Moscow is safe--”

He shakes his head in astonishment. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“Because it would be my fault if something happened!” she whispers desperately. “I know what Ajay did and I could have stopped him--”

He snorts and drinks. “How the fuck are you a kingpin’s wife…”

She purses her lips and says nothing. He watches her for a moment, her untamed hair frizzing, her delicate fingers digging into her arm as if holding a lifeline. He looks down and rubs the back of his head, unsure why this girl pulls at all his threads.

“Record him,” he says quietly after a moment. “Get proof he’s lying. I’ll play it for Lila if that will make you feel better.”

Kala nods. “It will.”

“Okay, find me tomorrow,” he says softly.

She nods again, and then she extends her hand tentatively to touch the bandage on his arm. “I...I know some things about medicine--”

“It’s happened before,” he says shortly. “I’m okay. Go.”

She nods and turns. He watches as she walks stiffly out of his room, startled by how delicate she is, and he resists an urge to pull her back, to prevent her from returning to Ajay’s bed.

***

Kala pads across the bedroom after shutting the door. She sheds her robe, shifting into bed next to Ajay. She takes two deep breaths, closes her eyes, and after a moment, takes her phone from the bedside table and begins to record audio. Then she throws her arm desperately against Ajay’s back, gasping.

He turns groggily.

“Ajay!” she says breathlessly, hands on his shoulders, face close to his. “Oh, thank God, thank God…I...I had this terrible nightmare...”

The lie comes to her too easily. The frenzy, the wide eyes.

“Ajay…” She makes the J soft in her mouth, the way she does when they’re having sex. “Ajay, are you sure about St. Petersburg? I...I don’t want anything to happen to you…”

Ajay wrinkles his brow and blinks. “Kala, go to sleep--”

“No, please, walk me through it again,” she murmurs. “Please. I can’t sleep. I’m so worried.”

Ajay sits up with a groan, then puts a hand through her hair and shakes his head. “Silly girl.” He trails his hand down and squeezes her arm, then continues, “I told the boss in Moscow that the Bogdanows plan to move their business to St. Petersburg.”

“Which isn’t true?” asks Kala.

“No,” snaps Ajay. “Were you listening at all earlier?”

“I’m sorry,” says Kala quickly.

“No, it’s not true,” he goes on, irked. “It’s to create a divide, obviously.”

“What did the boss in Mumbai say?” asks Kala.

“Not much,” replies Ajay. “She thanked me for the information.”

Kala nods slowly. “And...and the Bogdanows won’t find out?”

“Not before we have a chance to leave and go to St. Petersburg,” he assures her.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay…” Then she smiles warmly and kisses him. “Thank you. I feel better.”

He nods unsurely and she slides her fingers behind his ear and down his neck.

“Let’s go to sleep now,” she murmurs, pressing closer.

He nods again, relaxing, and pulls her against him as they settle under the covers. He keeps his grip firm on her and she stares into the windy night, watching ice-clad branches thrash.

Then she lets out all her breath at once and closes her eyes; she doesn’t recognize the woman who just lied to her husband, but she wants to. She smiles willfully despite the panic that she’ll be caught, and as she drifts to sleep, she wonders distantly what else she would do for Wolfgang.


	3. Maybe I'll see you in another life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfgang returns from Moscow to find his mother in need of help. Kala goes with Ajay and Steiner on a mission. Old memories resurface, and Wolfgang struggles to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke my own heart writing this. Yikes.

* * *

 

_What are we gonna do?_

_We've opened the door, now it's all coming through_

 

 Wolfgang accepts a glass of beer from a flight attendant and drinks it mindlessly while listening to Kala’s recording for the third time. He’s en route to Moscow, above the clouds; the sun streams in through the windows of the aircraft, creating a glare, illuminating dust specks. He adjusts his headphones, frowning as he listens to Kala’s voice.

  
_Oh, thank God, thank God…I...I had this terrible nightmare…_

  
The fear in her voice is credible. He didn’t expect her to be such an excellent liar.

  
_Silly girl…_

  
Wolfgang’s lip curls and he glances out the window of the plane. He supposes her ability to lie is a natural result of being married to such a repugnant man, but he’s surprised nonetheless that a woman so young could craft a deception so easily and so convincingly.

  
_Thank you. I feel better…_

  
He listens to the recording one more time, fascinated by it, and lets his memory linger for a moment on Kala’s expression when she came into his room -- frantic, determined.

  
_You can’t say no?_

  
He looks back on this as a profoundly stupid thing to ask her. He wonders briefly if the fact that she’s Ajay’s wife, the fact that she can tell herself she has an obligation, helps or hurts the situation. He shakes his head slightly and finishes his beer. It’s possible that Kala betrayed Ajay out of spite alone, to assert some agency, but Wolfgang is stuck on her expression, on the warmth in her eyes. He senses, somehow, that her choice was more about him than it was about Ajay, though he can’t understand why.

  
He exhales and exits this train of thought, then checks his watch and adjusts it to display an hour later. He sets his phone aside on the tray table in front of him and tosses his headphones into his bag as an announcement comes over the PA.

  
“We’re beginning our initial descent. Welcome to Moscow. The current temperature is negative seven degrees.”

  
Wolfgang shuts his eyes briefly and rubs his face. Then he leans back in his seat and watches as the plane loses height, the clouds below getting closer.

  
He cracks his knuckles gently and begins to pack his things in his messenger bag. The plane continues to lose altitude, and after twenty minutes, it descends onto a frosty runway at Vnukovo International Airport. Wolfgang hastens off the plane and into the airport, then to a train which takes him from the airport to the Khamovniki District.

  
He smokes a cigarette as he walks from the station to Lila’s flat, passing the Red Square and a massive cathedral with colorful onion domes. He shoulders his bag on his good arm, throat aching from the cold, and breathes out in relief as he steps up to Lila’s flat. He presses the intercom and says, “It’s Wolfgang.”

  
The fortified glass door unlocks and he pushes it open, then takes an elevator to the top floor of the building. The doors slide open to reveal a stately flat, decorated with leather couches and Persian carpets. Lila, dressed in a tight black dress with a red blazer, doesn’t look up when he enters. She takes her time pouring steaming black coffee from a decanter into a small white cup.

  
Wolfgang watches her cautiously, but feels secure enough to take a seat on one of the couches. He sees her mouth twist in amusement as she looks up.

  
“You’re early,” she tells him.

  
“I meant to be,” he replies.

  
“A problem we can’t discuss in front of my men?” she guesses.

  
He nods softly, and she walks across the flat, then reclines on a chaise lounge opposite the couch. She angles her elbow against one of the cushions to keep her head up and her eyes x-ray him for a moment.

  
“I hear you’re betraying me to partner with Dolokhov,” she says after sipping her coffee.

  
Wolfgang smirks humorlessly. “Tell me how a man as stupid as Ajay Kapoor became a boss in Mumbai.”

  
“Never underestimate how far stupidity can take a man,” says Lila crisply.

  
“I have proof Ajay lied to you, if you want it,” Wolfgang tells her.

  
“I don’t need proof,” she says tiredly. “I trust you. Kapoor is clearly an imbecile.” But her lips twitch in interest. “What proof?”

  
“His wife recorded him and sent the recording to me,” explains Wolfgang.

  
Lila looks at him for a long moment. Then she turns, glances over her shoulder, and calls for an attendant. She directs her to make them drinks, then turns back to Wolfgang.

  
“Are you sleeping together?” she asks him.

  
Wolfgang shakes his head. Lila’s eyes remain fixed on him, suspicious.

  
“Give me one reason that girl would do that,” she says softly.

  
Wolfgang shrugs and rests his arm on the back cushion of the couch. “I don’t know. She’s young, she clearly hates Ajay…”

  
The attendant that Lila called comes over with two negronis in crystal glasses. She hands one to Wolfgang and one to Lila, who smirks at her flirtatiously as she takes a sip.

  
Wolfgang gestures at the attendant as she walks away. “You sleep with your maids?”

  
“Some of them,” says Lila waspishly, adding, “Play the recording. I’m curious now.”

  
Wolfgang nods after taking a drink. He sets the elegant glass aside and takes out his phone, then plays the recording aloud for Lila.

  
When they reach the part where Ajay says, “I told the boss in Moscow that the Bogdanows plan to move their business to St. Petersburg,” Lila clicks her tongue and takes a long sip of her drink.

  
“I nearly laughed when he called me,” she snips.

  
They continue to listen, and Lila snorts when Ajay says, “Not before we have a chance to leave and go to St. Petersburg.”

  
“He’s working with Dolokhov, isn’t he?” she asks.

  
Wolfgang pauses the recording and tosses his phone to the side. “Obviously.”

  
“Is this the problem you mentioned?” asks Lila.

  
“Yes,” says Wolfgang, glancing down and massaging the back of his neck. “I’m reluctant to go to my uncle with this.”

  
“Because he’ll kill the girl you’re not sleeping with,” says Lila. She shakes her head in amusement and gestures at him. “Caccia le palle…”

  
Wolfgang looks up and narrows his eyes.

  
“Grow some balls,” she explains.

  
Wolfgang briefly grabs his crotch and says indignantly, “They’re right here, thanks. I’m reluctant to go to my uncle because this could help us.”

  
Lila watches him, her expression blank. He doesn’t speak, waiting for her response; her straight mouth and cold eyes lend themselves to intimidation, and he wonders for a moment if a silent glare is how Lila won her battles as she worked her way up from her post as a simple spy to the most powerful woman in Moscow.

  
He knows she was recruited as a spy when she was only sixteen. Her father worked with the former boss in Moscow; she caught his eye, and spent the next ten years manipulating, persuading, and killing her opposition until, one day, the boss himself disappeared. He’s never asked what she did to him, but he doubts it was merciful.

  
“This could help us?” she asks, almost a whisper.

  
“Yes,” says Wolfgang firmly. “Let Ajay work with Dolokhov. Let him lure him to Berlin. You know how difficult it will be to kill him in St. Petersburg. We would both lose men if we tried to do that.”

  
Lila doesn’t speak for another moment, scrutinizing him. Finally she says, “You are not as stupid as your father.”

  
Wolfgang smirks in satisfaction and sips his drink.

  
“Don’t be cocky,” she tells him, getting to her feet. “This could work, but it will be difficult to convince my men it is smart…” She approaches him slowly, eyes dark, and when she reaches him, she bends over so her face is close to his. “And if I wake up one morning and learn that Ajay Kapoor has escaped to St. Petersburg with _my_ imports, I will personally ensure that these pretty bones,” -- she pats his cheek -- “end up at the bottom of the Spree River.” She tilts her head, pulls her hand away, and returns to her seat across from him.

  
He raises his eyebrows. “Having fun?”

  
She sips her drink and smiles. “A little.”

  
He snorts humorlessly and leans back. “When do your men get here?”

  
“An hour,” she says, adding, “I’ll explain this to them. They don’t like you.”

  
Wolfgang finishes his drink. “Why is that?”

  
“Let’s recall,” says Lila breathily. “You’re a Bogdanow, you’re twenty-four, you’re an alcoholic, you dated a CIA operative who specializes in organized crime for nearly a year…”

  
Wolfgang looks at her blankly, then chuckles. He takes out his cigarettes and lights up. “True.”

  
“How is my favorite agent?” she asks him with a smirk.

  
“He still hates me,” says Wolfgang, nodding.

  
“Men are so stupid,” sighs Lila, extending her hand for a cigarette.

  
He hands one to her and she lights it, then rests her legs on the lounge and leans back. They smoke in silence, share another drink after a while, and then her men arrive. Wolfgang spends the rest of the afternoon arguing with unsmiling Russians and drawing up plans and backup plans for the elimination of Dolokhov, but his mind isn’t in Moscow -- it’s in Berlin, fixated on Kala’s desire to protect him.  _The girl you aren't sleeping with_. He smiles slightly and wonders if this will change. 

  
***

  
Kala pulls on a thick white sweater, shivering, and checks her watch for the tenth time. She’s watched the hours pass obsessively since sending Wolfgang the recording, counting down to his return. She prays the boss in Moscow believed him, though she knows his safe arrival will provoke Ajay.

  
She paces the bedroom slowly, eyes fixed on the polished mahogany floor, and looks up with a start when Ajay appears in the doorway. He’s wearing a tight-fitting black shirt and has an AR-15 strapped across his chest. She swallows at the sight, body tight with apprehension. Sergei offered to include Ajay on a mission to redress a wrong done by an enemy boss.

  
“See us off,” he says.

  
She swallows and nods, breath shallow, and follows him downstairs. She toys with the cuffs of her sweater as she enters the den, where Steiner, also equipped with a large gun, and Sergei are waiting.

  
She looks unsurely outside, the sun casting weak light through a layer of snow cloud. She would prefer to be in the house without Steiner and her husband, but they serve as a distraction, and her preoccupation on Wolfgang’s arrival is intense; for once, she’s not sure she wants to be alone with her thoughts.

  
Sergei chuckles and says, “I have a gun for you, Mrs. Kapoor, if you’re interested.”

  
Kala wrinkles her brow and looks at Ajay, who glances from Sergei to her and smirks. “Well, what do you say, Kala?”

  
Kala frowns. “What do you mean?”

  
“Would you like to come?” asks Ajay.

  
“Oh, no. No, no--”

  
“It could be interesting,” coaxes Ajay.

  
Kala’s eyes widen when she realizes he’s serious. Her gaze flickers from Sergei to Steiner to her husband, whose face twitches slightly in warning. She nods quickly, understanding she must say yes, and he brightens.

  
“Good,” he says. “Seeing what we do will benefit you. You’ll be grateful you aren’t included most times.” He snorts at his own joke, then gestures at her. “But you’ll stand out in white.” He waves his fingers at a maid nearby, who hands over a black shirt. “This should fit you, Kala…”

  
Kala takes it from him and looks at him with cold eyes. He gestures at her.

  
“Go on,” he says.

  
She nods and turns away, intending to leave, but he pulls her back. “Don’t be so shy.”

  
She stiffens. “What?”

  
“Change,” he says.

  
“Ajay--” she pleads, but she stops herself when she sees his expression, sure he’ll reprimand her later for speaking out of turn in front of other men.

  
She nods miserably and sets the new shirt on a chair nearby. She swallows, gaze downcast, and takes her sweater off. She exchanges it with the black shirt, shaking with shame and anger, and keeps her gaze on the floor when she’s done. She knows Ajay asked her to do this so the other men could see how attractive his wife is; she knows that he wants them to understand she's his possession. 

  
He lifts her chin and she looks at him with wet, hurt eyes. She can feel Steiner and Sergei staring at her and she resists the urge to snarl at all of them, abruptly jealous of Wolfgang’s stature and ability to respond with his fists.

  
“Good,” says Ajay simply, pinching her cheek hard. “Ask Sergei for your gun.”

  
Kala turns stiffly and looks at Sergei without speaking. He hands her a pistol, which she hides under the coat that Ajay gives her. Steiner chuckles unpleasantly at the sight of her and adds more chewing tobacco to the wad that is already in his mouth.

  
“Sure she knows how to use that?” he asks Ajay, gesturing at Kala’s gun.

  
“Do you want to find out?” hisses Kala, unable to help herself.

  
Ajay instantly grips her shirt and turns her to face him. He clenches her hair painfully in his fist so she looks at him, then puts his contorted face close to hers and spits, “Be more respectful.”

  
She nods hard, terrified. He pushes her backward and leads the way out of the den with Steiner behind him; she follows, head down, a hand in her hair to soothe the pain. She looks with dead eyes at her feet as they walk over an elaborate gold and black rug; in moments like these, her feet aren’t her own -- none of her body is. It exists only to trap her heart here on earth, here with Ajay.

  
She follows the men to Steiner’s car, a black Jaguar which smells like cigarettes and sweat. She sits in the middle back, hands clasped hard, and watches Steiner in the rearview mirror.

  
“W-where are we going?” she whispers.

  
“A club,” says Ajay shortly.

  
“Fuchs’s man’s there,” adds Steiner, laughing in cold excitement and smacking the wheel as he drives.

  
“Is...is this the brigadier?” asks Kala, recalling snippets of conversation from the past week.

  
“No,” says Steiner dismissively. “Wolfie got him. Fucked up, though, had to kill the lot…”

  
Kala blinks, stomach twisting. She nods and stares at her hands, which are stiff and slightly blue with cold. She closes her eyes as the car speeds through Berlin, disoriented; she distracts herself from the information that Wolfgang, like the others, kills opponents with abandon.

  
She thinks instead of Ajay’s intentions -- she isn’t sure if he insisted on her company to show her the brutality of mob life and disturb her, or to embarrass her by discounting her skill and have a hearty laugh with Steiner about a woman’s abilities. Both possibilities annoy her. She may have never seen her husband in the role of a mobster, but she’s aware of the brutality of mob life considering she is often his target. And she won’t be embarrassed by criticism -- violence isn’t an ability she desires to perfect, and it would do nothing but satisfy her to be bad at it.

  
“How far?” she asks.

  
“Stop asking questions,” says Ajay.

  
“Okay--”

  
“In fact, I don’t want to hear you speak at all today,” he adds.

  
She nods listlessly. Steiner chuckles and the sound rolls over her like a mudslide. She takes several short breaths, desperate for relief. She looks out the window as the neat apartments and shops slide by like a stop-motion film. She spent the first two years with Ajay without challenging him, and it was easier; but lately, the weight of blind acceptance is heavier than the stroke of his hand.

  
“Ajay--”

  
“What did I tell you?” he interrupts.

  
“Ajay, how far?” she says with a clenched jaw.

  
Ajay huffs and rolls down the window, extracting a cigarette. Then he says, “Kala, if you speak again, you know what I’ll do.”

  
She closes her eyes.

  
A life in a rural paradise emerges. She’s safe. A man loves her. She loves him. They never fight. Children wander in the heather and she takes a long drink of sweet, cold water.

  
An escape emerges. Ajay’s throat gushes with blood, too late to be saved.

  
She looks at her husband from the side -- his haughty profile, his permanent leer. Her lips twitch in hostility and she thumbs over her gun. Physically, it’s simple; she lifts her arm, she presses her finger on the cold metal of the trigger. Psychologically, she’s unsure.

  
The car sloshes through the ice and careens to a stop in front of a one-story club, lit on the curb with turquoise lighting. The sidewalk jumps from the bass inside and the bouncers pace.

  
Steiner rolls down his window and shoots one bouncer, then the other. Kala watches the blood on the pavement as if it’s simply a spilled glass of red wine.

  
She gets out of the car with Steiner and Ajay and goes into the club before passersby gather. It’s dark, pounding with noise and swirling lights. She follows them to the back, through the crowd, to an isolated room with a locked door. Steiner slams his gun on the lock to disable it and kicks the door open. Kala knows her breathing is accelerated; she knows her heart is thrashing on her ribs; she knows her skin is cold and prickly with fear, but she experiences none of this. Her mind is blank as she stretches her gun out, as the men in the room try to disperse, as Steiner opens fire.

  
“Go, go,” hisses Steiner, shuttling her and Ajay back into the hall.

  
The sound of gunshots has created pandemonium. Men and women scatter, screaming, and the hallway is abruptly empty. Kala is aware that this is the moment these men live for -- alone, on top, inextinguishable.

  
Then a young woman stumbles through the hall in an attempt to escape. Kala notes her yellow dress, her clunky shoes, makeup that suggests she rarely practices applying it; Kala figures she’s eighteen at the most, that perhaps she sneaked into the club.

  
The girl pauses in the doorway. Her eyes lock on the dead men inside the room, and two things happen at once: Kala lunges forward with an impassioned, insistent “No!” and Ajay extends his gun. Then the shot splits the night like a glass breaking and the girl falls.

  
Kala sees herself as the life leaves the girl’s eyes.

  
“No, no,” she gasps, immediately sobbing. “No…”

  
She tries to step forward to help the girl, but Ajay drags her away.

  
***

  
Wolfgang checks his phone as he walks through the airport in Berlin, exhausted by the negotiations in Moscow; he taps his finger impatiently on the side of the phone case as notifications come in all at once after being in airplane mode. He sees nearly twenty missed calls from a number he doesn’t recognize. He thinks unintentionally of Will -- A work number? A new phone? -- and then shakes his head at himself and takes a long drink of coffee.

  
He unlocks his phone and calls the number as he navigates the wide halls of the airport. His mother picks up instantly.

  
“Oh, thank God, thank God…”

  
Wolfgang briefly closes his eyes, dreading the next words.

  
“Anton locked me in our room, I can’t get out, where were you? Where were you? I called so many times--”

  
Wolfgang shakes his head and mutely reaches for his flask in his jacket pocket.

  
“--you didn’t pick up, you don’t care about me, you--”

  
“I was on a plane,” he says calmly after taking a long drink of vodka.

  
“But, but…” she whispers. “Okay. Please hurry, please Wolfgang.”

  
He’s about to ask how she has a phone, but decides it’s irrelevant and says, “Call the police, I’m an hour away.”

  
“No, no, I can’t,” she says, terrified. “I can’t call them. No. I won’t.”

  
“Okay,” he says shortly.

  
He hangs up, irritated, and immediately dials Will’s number. It rings for the expected length of time -- long enough to make a point, but not so that it goes to voicemail.

  
“I’m at work,” he says.

  
Wolfgang snorts in annoyance. “I know. Look, my father locked my mother in their room and I’m not there, can you send Diego? My mother doesn’t want police there because they always want her to press charges, but--”

  
“Goddamn it, Wolfgang,” interrupts Will with a sigh. “Fine. Is it still 48 Krusauer Straße?”

  
Wolfgang pauses. “Why do you remember that?”

  
“I’ll call D, this is the last time,” says Will, avoiding the question.

  
The line dies and Wolfgang stares at his phone in his hand for a moment before pocketing it. Then he hurries to the train platform, vexed; he spends the train ride drinking coffee and restlessly sliding the silver ring he wears on his middle finger -- it has an oak tree etched onto it, Germany’s national tree, and belonged to his maternal grandfather who he never met; he has no idea what the man was like, but his mother gave him the ring, and it reminds him of her.

  
His phone vibrates in his bag and he glances at it. A text from Will.

  
Will, 16:27 -- _Why didn’t you just ask Felix?_

  
He breathes out hard and writes back: _My father would try to kill him. He thinks we were together when we were teenagers._

  
_Will, 16:28 -- You sure you can’t convince your mom to move out?_

  
Wolfgang, 16:28 -- _You sure you can’t fuck off?_

  
He puts his phone away again and finishes his coffee, gaze drifting to the frigid river as the train passes over it. He rubs a hand over his stubble, the vodka beginning to soften his annoyance at his mother, so he drinks more of it.

  
Ten minutes later, he gets off the train near Lichtenrade and pulls a stocking cap out of his bag; he puts it on and lights a cigarette, then walks north to his parents’ house, where he sees a police car parked. He braces, then steps up the icy stairs and presses the door open. He pauses in the doorway to take in the scene -- his father hunched, leaning on his cane, hissing abuses at Diego and Irina. Diego has a hand out to keep Anton from reaching them, and Irina is cowering in front of him, crying as she explains what happened.

  
Diego glances over his shoulder and sees Wolfgang. “Oh great, now you show. What were you so busy doing? That club shooting? Was that you?”

  
Wolfgang looks at him expressionlessly, then at his mother. As he steps closer he sees that her face is freshly bruised and her lip is bleeding. Her eyes widen wildly at the sight of him and she lunges forward to reach him. She buries her face immediately in his chest and sobs. He hugs her close, stroking her hair.

  
“It’s alright--”

  
“You did this,” growls Anton, approaching them. “You called this filthy _musor_ ,” -- he gestures at Diego, then spits on the floor -- “to my home.”

  
“This the norm?” asks Diego, gesturing at them.

  
Wolfgang doesn’t answer, pushing his mother behind him and looking at his father with cold fire in his gaze. “Don’t touch her.”

  
Diego shakes his head and takes Anton’s arms behind him, then reaches for handcuffs. Anton struggles, cursing him, spit flying. Wolfgang watches, disaffected, but Irina grips his arm frantically, nails digging in.

  
“We-we, we can’t let him go with the police, you know we can’t!” she hisses.

  
“Before you say anything,” says Diego, “yeah, Gorski asked me not to do this, said to do you a favor and make sure no Bogdanow ends up in police custody, but I’m a cop and, in case you didn’t know, hitting your wife is a crime. So--”

  
“No!” yelps Irina. “No, he didn’t hit me! I fell. I fell, that’s all that happened!”

  
Wolfgang breathes out heavily and gives his mother’s arms a gentle squeeze. Diego sighs and releases Anton.

  
“Really, ma’am? You sure about that?”

  
Irina nods hard and wipes her face free from tears. Wolfgang shakes his head slightly at Diego.

  
“What are you expecting? The truth?” He shakes his head again and rubs his mother’s arm. “Thanks for coming but you need to go.”

  
“Yeah, you’re such a catch,” says Diego angrily, placing the cuffs back on his utility belt. He heads for the door and adds as he passes them, “Hey, if you get a chance, why don’t you call up Gorski and remind him...what was it that you said? That you never cared about him and he’s unlovable? Yeah, I think that was it…” He pats the cuffs at his side. “You’ll fuck up eventually, I promise.” He adds a final, “Asshole” as he goes out the door and slams it.

  
Wolfgang doesn’t react. He looks at his father, who is scowling and shaking in anger as he stalks towards them again, tugging his oxygen behind. Irina tries to step in front of Wolfgang to shield him.

  
“No,” he murmurs, keeping her safely behind, adding in a snarl at Anton, “Proud of yourself?”

  
“You ungrateful cunt,” Anton hisses at Irina, before turning to Wolfgang and saying, “If I see the fucking police in this house again, I’ll slice her open like the mongrel bitch she is.”

  
Wolfgang looks at his father for a moment, gaze ferocious; his nose wrinkles slightly in revulsion and he quietly says, “Leave.”

  
Irina trembles, looking from her son to her husband, who begins to laugh.

  
“Now!” explodes Wolfgang, face twitching with rage. He shoves his hands against his father’s chest so he stumbles, but catches his shirt in his fist so he doesn’t fall. He hisses in his face so his mother can’t hear, “If you come back and I’m still here, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

  
He sees Anton’s jaundiced eyes widen slightly as he releases him. Anton picks up an ever-present bottle of vodka from a table nearby, then paces sourly towards the door, slugging it, and leaves.

  
Wolfgang turns to his mother and says insistently, “Mom, come with me--”

  
“You know I can’t,” she whispers desolately.

  
“Please--”

  
She shakes her head rapidly and whispers, “Why did you know that cop?”

  
Wolfgang hesitates, then says softly, “I dated his friend.”

  
“Will?” asks Irina, eyes heavy.

  
Wolfgang nods and his mother reaches out to smooth her hand over his cheek, smiling distantly. “You are so brave.”

  
Wolfgang glances down, unable to look at her after words like these, and mumbles, “No.”

  
“You are,” she goes on, and then fresh tears fall and she settles against him, face tucked against his chest once again.

  
He breathes out, almost a whistle, and hugs her for a second time. They stay like this for a moment and he looks around the dusky house, taking in the orthodox relics -- gold-painted crucifixes, chipped figurines of saints -- until his gaze lands on a smoking pot in the kitchen. He squeezes his mother a little harder, then kisses the side of her head and lets go, walking into the kitchen to attend to the pot.

  
“I was making onion soup,” calls Irina softly. “But…”

  
“Why did he lock you up?” asks Wolfgang as he moves the pot to the sink and runs water over it; the water pops and jumps on the metal, hissing.

  
“I...I don’t know,” says Irina, bewildered.

  
Wolfgang turns with narrowed eyes. “How did you call me?”

  
“Oh,” says Irina, smiling. “See, I keep an analog phone in our room. I hide it.” She nods proudly. “I’m very smart.”

  
Wolfgang looks at his mother in dazed consternation. “You what?”

  
“I keep one in the kitchen too, and the bathroom, just in case he takes mine.”

  
He stares at her, then looks away before she realizes his gaze isn’t one of admiration. He nods slowly.

  
“So you haven’t eaten?” he asks, segwaying, hoping to get her out of the house and coax her into staying with Felix.

  
She shakes her head. He nods again, shuts off the stove, then goes to the closet in the mudroom and takes her winter coat out of it. He walks up to her and helps her into the coat, and then tries to smile.

  
He squeezes her arm. “C’mon, I’ll get you something.”

  
She sniffles and nods, then smiles faintly and holds up a finger. She goes into the bathroom to cover her bruises with makeup, then returns.

  
He puts an arm around her narrow shoulders and guides her towards the door. Outside, diminutive snowflakes are falling. She tilts her head back in the precipitation, smiling more widely, and turns her palms upwards.

  
“Did you know,” she whispers as if telling a secret, “that you were born when it was snowing just like this?”

  
He smiles in earnest. “No.”

  
“Well, I liked that,” she says. “This kind of snow looks like sugar. Or crystals. Everything sparkled when the sun came up and you were born very early in the morning, so I like to think that’s the first thing you saw. Everything sparkled.” She grins. “Like you. Your eyes.” Then she laughs. “You were a fat baby.”

  
He laughs too. “Aren’t babies supposed to be?”

  
“Yes,” she replies as they go down the creaking stairs and step onto the sidewalk, “but really, I wish I had pictures. You had such funny dimples.”

  
“Yeah, I still have those...”

  
“Well, if you ever smiled I’d see them,” she jokes.

  
He nods, then nudges her and turns his face so she can see. He smiles extra wide and taps the dimples on either side of his mouth and she throws her head back and laughs loudly.

  
“Aw!” she exclaims.

  
“Still there,” he says, hugging her from the side.

  
She leans against him as they walk down the street through the snow. This neighborhood is heavy with trees, and the median between the cobbled street and the sidewalk is unkempt; long grass pokes through the layer of snow, wheat-colored, bent. Cars trundle past them with lights distorted in the cold fog, and Wolfgang glances down, smiling again. Occasionally, when he’s alone with his mom, when there’s no chance of Anton interrupting, he’s able to remember the good moments -- singing a cereal jingle at her as if it was the audition of his life; stirring a bowl of cookie batter with a quizzical expression while she chuckled at him; playing hangman on the back of a bus schedule as he rode with her at five a.m. to her job as a cashier.

  
_You’d never leave Berlin._ He breathes out, stuck on Felix’s words, and then he says quietly, “Mom, if I moved out of Berlin, would you come?”

  
Irina looks at him in surprise, her thick brows coming together above her nose. Her eyes brighten in confusion and fear. “You can’t leave me here.”

  
“I know. I’m asking if you would come.”

  
“Wolfgang, you can’t leave me here--”

  
He pauses and takes her arms. “I know. I’m not going to. I won’t leave if you don’t come. I’m asking if you would.”

  
She slowly nods, eyes tracking back and forth as if she still doesn’t understand. But she murmurs, “Whatever you want.”

  
“You would be safer,” says Wolfgang after a pause to gauge her expression.

  
She nods, and then she smiles and nudges him down the sidewalk. “I’m hungry.”

  
He notices a childlike tendency to change subjects with need-based statements -- _I’m hungry, I’m sleepy, I’m cold_ \-- but he just nods.

  
They continue through the snow to a small Italian restaurant, where they sit at a table with yellow-and-white checkered tablecloths, surrounded by potted plants. Wolfgang orders beer and Irina -- with an indulgent laugh -- orders a glass of champagne. Wolfgang smiles in amusement at this but doesn’t say anything.

  
“This is the first time we’ve done anything fun in years,” she says as she clicks her glass against his.

He nods in agreement and drinks his beer. They order a pizza to share, and leave the restaurant at ten, heading towards Felix’s apartment.

  
***

  
Kala is perched on the window-seat in her room, staring into the courtyard of the Bogdanow mansion, drinking a cup of tea. It’s too cold, but she doesn’t have the energy to go into the kitchen and heat it. She leans her head on the wall, gaze blank, and watches a leaf flutter and skip across the recent snowfall.

  
She could remain in her seat. She could refuse to move. She could wither away here, watching the courtyard, and who would miss her?

  
She bends her neck and rests her face on her knees, eyes wet. Wolfgang isn’t back yet. The sun is down. Every minute that passes mocks her for her ignorance, for her foolish hope. Ajay and the men are downstairs drinking in celebration, and she is here like a ragdoll, tossed away.

  
She’s about to get up and go to bed, sure she’ll uselessly toss and turn, when she looks up at a clunk in the next room. Her breath quickens at the idea that Wolfgang is safe, that he is back.

  
She crosses the room quickly to press her ear to the wall. She hears another clunk, and a breathy, “Oh, fuck.”

  
The voice is unfamiliar and she frowns. She ties her robe tighter, then leaves the room with her mug of tea in her hand. She checks the hallway to make sure she’s alone, and then she goes to Wolfgang’s room, turns the knob, and presses the door open.

  
She stops immediately, startled -- there is a young man near the window, in the process of picking up several fallen books. He’s slim, but even under his jacket, Kala can tell he’s strong. Slightly tan, dark blue eyes, a haircut that suggests a profession in surveillance. She squints at the open window and the books on the floor and realizes he climbed through. She hesitates, unsure if she should quietly slip out of sight or if she should confront this...thief? Spy?

  
But before she can decide, he looks up and stares at her in alarm. Then he holds his hands up.

  
“I’m looking for Wolfgang, you don’t need to be afraid,” he says quickly in German.

  
Kala tries to control her breathing. She shakes her head and squints. Of all the possibilities, this isn’t the one she expected.

  
“Who...who are you?” she asks in English, guessing that his accent is American and he'll speak more clearly if she invites him to use his native language.

  
He breathes out. “Fuck, good, my German’s still terrible. I’m Will. I, uh…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Who are you?”

  
“Kala,” she murmurs. “Ajay’s wife. Ajay Kapoor…”

  
Will nods, expressionless. “Is Wolfgang here?”

  
“No, he’s--” She cuts herself off before revealing that he’s in Moscow. “He isn’t.”

  
“Yeah, typical,” says Will with a shake of his head. “Are you covering for him?”

  
“No. He isn’t here. Who are you? Are you American?”

  
“A friend. I need to talk to him. And yeah. Chicago, born and raised.”

  
Kala looks again at the window. She’s sure she would fail to recognize which window of dozens is Wolfgang’s. The fact that this man did means he has intimate knowledge of the mansion, which further suggests he is a cop or a spy. She studies him for a moment, his neat hair, clean shave, dark jeans, and leather jacket. His eyes are cautious as they search the room, and Kala notices them linger on the bed.

  
She swallows, about to speak, but then a diminutive gray cat prances into the room with a loud meow. The cat trots up to Will and cheerfully rubs against his leg.

  
“Hi you,” mumbles Will, reaching down to pat the cat’s side. The cat meows again in response.

  
Kala furrows her brow, briefly distracted. “Wolfgang...has a cat?”

  
Will nods. “Be careful, it bites.”

  
Kala softens slightly. “Well, that fits…” Then she says quietly, “If you’re friends...why did you climb through his window? Why not come through the front door?”

  
Will raises his eyebrows, clearly unprepared to answer. “When does he get back?”

  
Kala crosses her arms and doesn’t speak. Will breathes out heavily and rubs the back of his neck again.

  
“I’ve never met his family,” he says after a moment. “And I’m not a big fan of them. It’s easier like this.”

  
Kala nods slowly. Will takes a cautious step closer.

  
“I’m worried about him, okay? Is…” He shakes his head and briefly shuts his eyes. “Is he okay? Do you know?”

  
Kala doesn’t speak, confused by this man’s interest and sudden appearance. “If I did, why would I tell you?”

  
“Please, okay? I need to know--”

  
“You’re a cop,” whispers Kala.

  
Will freezes, and she steps up to him, eyes fixed. She reaches out to touch the gun concealed on his hip and smirks. He tips his head down in defeat as she pulls the gun out. She studies the serial number on the side and nods in confirmation.

  
“I’m not a cop,” he says dully. “I’m...CIA, actually.”

  
“Oh, perfect,” breathes Kala. “You need to leave.”

  
“I’m not here as an agent, okay?” he says desperately.

  
Kala remains silent, gauging his tone and the frenzy in his eyes. He eventually sighs, shoulders softening, and walks in circles around the room. Kala keeps her gaze trained on him, and after a moment, he pauses. He drags his fingers along the table next to Wolfgang’s bed, collecting cigarette ash, and then he does something strange.

  
He lifts one of the discarded shirts on Wolfgang’s bed up to his face -- it’s a brief gesture, unconscious and unplanned, but it communicates the truth to Kala instantly. She breathes out in disbelief and feels a twinge of jealousy. He tosses the shirt aside, then continues to walk circles. She steps up to him with insistent eyes.

  
“You love him,” she says quietly.

  
Will’s eyes widen and he tries to laugh. “What?”

  
Kala shakes her head quickly. “It doesn’t matter. You’re CIA? Are you investigating the Bogdanows?”

  
“Hold on--”

  
“Tell me,” demands Kala.

  
Will breathes out hard, incredulous. “No, hold on--”

  
“I want to help you,” says Kala tenaciously, suddenly struck by a wild, ill-considered idea. The shooting flashes in her mind. “Please. These men. They -- they have to be stopped. Let me help. You must know there was a shooting at a club--”

  
“Miss, you’re getting way ahead of yourself, okay? I don’t mean to be rude but I’m just looking for Wolfgang--”

  
“I know what they’ve all done,” says Kala in a low, perilous voice. “I know how they hide their money. I know who they import from and who they export to. I’ll tell you all of it.”

  
Will looks at her for a long time, perplexed and taken aback. He starts to laugh.

  
“What -- what the fuck?” he finally says. “You don’t know me. Why would you--”

  
“My husband is stupid,” snarls Kala. “He won’t outlast the police and I’m his accomplice. I want immunity.”

  
“I...I have no reason to trust you,” stumbles Will.

  
They look at each other for a moment, balanced on each other’s edges. Kala feels her heart pound frantically, as if it wants to escape, as if trying to communicate that this decision was incautious. She tongues over her bottom lip, blinking rapidly.

  
“What do you have to lose?” she whispers. “You can’t lose this chance. You know that. What would your superior officers say if you turned down a chance to talk to Ajay Kapoor’s wife?”

  
Will slowly shakes his head, still astonished. But then he nods. “Okay. Okay, um, come to my office…”

  
He searches for a moment until he finds a scrap of paper and a pen. He scribbles an address and hands the note to Kala and she reads it, noting the precise handwriting. She nods and smiles slightly in thanks.

  
Then she looks over her shoulder at a loud, unfamiliar voice downstairs. “My own house, the ungrateful bitch--”

  
“Fuck,” says Will seriously. “I have to go. Shit.” He hurries towards the window, adding to Kala, “Don’t go downstairs.”

  
She frowns deeply, but he’s lowered himself out of the window and out of sight before she can ask questions. She stares at the open window for a moment, and then she crosses the room to close it. She folds the note Will gave her in her palm and for a moment, her heartbeat echoes; for a moment, she is stunned by the sudden silence and space around her. Then, like a shout carried a long distance by the wind, she hears these words: _what did you just do?_

  
***

Wolfgang extinguishes his cigarette by crushing it on the stoop with his foot, then opens the door to the mansion and goes inside. He hears his father and Sergei drunkenly conversing -- not a surprise -- and continues beyond the den to avoid them. His mother is safely asleep on Felix’s couch, and he’s exhausted, itching for a drink since his flask is empty and there was no subtle way to replenish it tonight.

  
He goes into the kitchen in search of vodka, and finds Ajay there, drinking a glass of wine and contemplating the incoherent conversation occurring in the den. He looks up at Wolfgang’s arrival and blinks, stunned.

  
Wolfgang smirks coldly, then takes a bottle of vodka down from a high shelf and continues past Ajay and into the hall.

  
He goes upstairs and pauses, glancing at Kala’s closed door. He steps up to it and lifts his fist to knock, but stops himself and goes into his room instead. He notices an unusual chill in the air and checks to see the window is closed, and then he glances at his cat curled up on the bed. He leans to pat it and then he sits at the table at the side of his bed. He takes a long drink of vodka, caps the bottle, and puts on the television across the room from his bed.

  
The news is on.

  
“--another in a series of killings as the conflict between the most successful crime families escalates--”

  
Wolfgang breathes out in annoyance and drinks more.

  
“--unfortunate collateral damage, which of course, is not unusual in incidents of this type--”

  
The image of a young woman -- soft features, a goofy grin -- flashes on the screen and Wolfgang leans forward slightly in concern.

  
“-- name was Silvia Pracht and she was seventeen-years-old--”

  
Wolfgang shuts the television off and drinks more to soothe the sudden wave of rage and nausea. He presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyes hard, then pulls his hand down his face and lets it linger briefly over his mouth. He shakes his head, eyes glazed from the dose of vodka, and he breathes out.

  
“Fuck,” he murmurs quietly to himself.

  
Then he violently casts the bottle of vodka to the floor. He stares at it as if he’s unsure how it got there, and then looks in fear at his outstretched arm, his clenched fist. He slowly lowers his arm, breath unsteady, and then glances at the cat, whose ears are up in alarm.

  
“Sorry,” he mutters to the cat, massaging his knuckles, which are stinging from the contact with the bottle.

  
He picks it up from the floor and sets it back on the table, and has just uncapped it to drink more when he hears raised voices next door.

  
“--must have done something, I know you did something!”

  
The sound of a slap. Wolfgang stands up in agitation, gripping the bottle of vodka.

  
“Ajay, please--”

  
Another slap, Kala sobbing as she pleads. Wolfgang stands still for a moment. He’s had enough to drink that he’s unsure he’ll be able to restrain himself if he intervenes; he's unsure he would stop before Ajay was dead.

  
“He must have known about Moscow, you stupid whore--”

  
Something falls, a body connects with the wall. Wolfgang’s grip on the bottle tightens, and without full consideration, he hurries out of his room. He’s unsure if seeing his mother laugh for the first time in a months is the impetus, or if he’s simply drunk and out of patience with Ajay, but tonight he can’t be complacent.

  
He throws open the door to Kala’s room and sees that Ajay has her pinned to the wall. He’s covering her mouth so she can’t call for help while he twists her hair in his hand.

  
Wolfgang sets the bottle of vodka down. Kala’s eyes find his and widen in alarm as he approaches. She shakes her head hard. Her nose is bleeding freely and one of her eyes is already swelling shut. His pulse quickens in rage at the sight of her and he ignores her warning.

  
“Let go of her,” he says quietly.

  
Ajay spins in surprise and his face contorts. “How dare you--”

  
Wolfgang punches him in the face without hesitation. Ajay spits blood on the floor and begins to struggle with Wolfgang, who easily deflects his punches, smirking with cold cruelty, enjoying himself. He punches Ajay in the face again.

  
“Had enough?” he asks with a casual tone. “Huh?”

  
Ajay begins to stumble and Wolfgang punches him again, hooking his fist under his jaw with all his strength.

  
Then there’s an infuriated shout in the doorway, “You idiot!”

  
Sergei and Steiner rush in and try to wrench him away from Ajay.

  
“He’s our guest, you naive fuckass,” snarls Steiner.

  
Wolfgang grapples with them, face contorted with resentment and anger. He shakes them off after a moment, trembling.

  
“What were you thinking?” hisses Sergei.

  
“Look at her!” Wolfgang shouts in his uncle’s face, gesturing at Kala.

  
“It is a personal matter,” Sergei replies curtly.

  
"Fuck you," says Wolfgang, and then he spits in his face. 

  
Steiner looks at Wolfgang in incredulous outrage, lip beginning to curl. Sergei closes his eyes and slowly wipes the spit off his face. 

  
“You ungrateful--” Steiner starts, but stops speaking at Wolfgang’s expression.

  
“Try it,” says Wolfgang, deadly serious.

  
No one speaks for a moment. All the men breathe heavily in the aftermath, and Ajay drifts, dazed, to a seat at the table nearby. Kala doesn’t move, blood dripping from her nose onto her nightgown. Wolfgang looks at her and she shakes her head, crying.

  
He makes the slightest motion to approach her, but she shakes her head harder, telling him to go, telling him it isn’t worth it. For an instant, he sees his mother in her, and suddenly his heart is empty; suddenly he’s confident that his mother will never leave Berlin. She, like Kala, will stay with the man who destroys her, and so will he -- he’s twenty-four and still in Berlin, still tolerating his depraved father, too cowardly to kill him or to leave.

  
His gaze lingers on Kala for another moment. Then he turns away, disgusted with himself, and picks up the bottle of vodka. He goes back into his room and shuts the door, then lies on the bed and stares listlessly at the ceiling.

  
_“You’ll kill her! Stop! Stop!” begs Wolfgang, hitting his father’s back uselessly with his small fists._

  
_Anton clenches his hand tighter around Irina’s throat, holding her against the wall while she gasps and scratches the paint with her nails._

  
_“Stop!” says Wolfgang, beginning to cry._

  
_Anton releases Irina, then punches her in the face so she collapses at the base of the wall. He takes a swig of vodka from the bottle nearby and rounds on Wolfgang, eyes bugging, a low chuckle starting in his chest._

  
_“Maybe you could help your mother if you weren’t such a sniveling little bitch.”_

  
_Wolfgang quickly wipes his eyes and looks up at his father, who towers over him._

  
_“What do you have to say?”_

  
_“Crying is for bitches,” recites Wolfgang instantly._

  
_Anton drinks more. “That’s right.”_

  
Wolfgang passes his hand over his face as he stares at the ceiling, as he listens to the soft creaks next door. He blinks, sick to his stomach, and shuts his eyes hard. He rubs his fingers over the knuckles of his opposing hand, pausing to twist his ring, and lets himself sink into the bed. He knows he won’t find sleep, despite his long day, despite the liquor.

  
He’s been here many times, stuck in a gunmetal box with demons who goad him and keep him awake; he’s no stranger to the pestilential memories which play on repeat; but tonight, rather than desiring an imprecise escape, rather than a vague wish to sleep, he experiences a distinct longing to be infinitely free of this box.

  
He glances at his gun on the side table, then takes it in his hand and presses the barrel lightly to his temple.

  
_Irina’s blue eyes widen in horror as she dances backward in the kitchen, away from Anton, who is stalking her._

  
_“What did I tell you I’d do?” he screams at her. “What did I tell you?”_

  
_“It -- it was an accident, Anton! We weren’t watching that singing show again! We -- we accidentally changed channels, I promise--”_

  
_“Don’t lie to me,” hisses Anton._

  
_“It was me!” shouts Wolfgang from the doorway. “It wasn’t mama’s fault, I did it, don’t--”_

  
_“Wolfgang, don’t,” sobs Irina._

  
_Anton turns, laughing coldly, and starts towards him. “You want what she’s going to get instead? You think you’re brave?”_

  
_“Anton, please, please, he’s your son, don’t--”_

  
_Wolfgang breathes rapidly, backing up, eyes locked with his father’s._

  
_“Remember what I said I’d do?” asks Anton, continuing to laugh._

  
_Wolfgang nods, expression barely concealing his terror, desperate to appear fearless to his mother. Anton takes off his belt and shoves Wolfgang against the nearest wall._

  
_“He didn’t do anything wrong!” screams Irina._

  
_Anton ignores her and begins to thrash the belt against Wolfgang’s back._

  
Wolfgang breathes in and out slowly, focusing on the cold metal of the gun against his head. He swallows hard and waits for a sudden surge of reckless disregard, but it doesn’t come. He clenches his jaw. One motion, one second, and everything could be over. He tips his chin up, preparing; then, on impulse, he throws the gun across the room.

  
“Fuck!” he shouts, incensed at his inability to pull the trigger.

  
He sits up, reaches for the vodka, and drinks for several seconds, nearly draining the rest of the bottle.

  
_“I know she’s lying,” his father hisses at him, face close to his, overwhelming him with the stench of peanuts and vodka. “But you’re going to tell the truth.”_

  
_Wolfgang shakes his head. At thirteen, he’s still much smaller than his father, but no punishment scares him anymore._

  
_Anton grips the back of his neck and thrusts him down so he’s bent over the kitchen table. He angles Wolfgang’s arm so he can’t pull it away, then takes one of his fingers._

  
_“Listen close,” he breathes in Wolfgang’s ear. “I’ll break a finger for every lie. I know you know where she went.”_

  
_Wolfgang tilts his head down, bracing. He’ll run out of fingers before he admits his mother went to the police._

  
_“Do you know where she went?” asks Anton._

  
_Wolfgang’s stomach jumps in dread and he shakes his head. His father instantly pulls one of his fingers back until it cracks at the knuckle. He underestimated the intensity of the pain and his knees buckle. He screws his eyes shut against a wave of nausea._

  
_“You stupid little bitch. Do you know where she went?”_

  
_Wolfgang bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood and he shakes his head. Another finger. He cries out quietly._

  
_“I’ll keep going,” growls Anton._

  
_Wolfgang’s shoulders shake and several tears fall onto the dusty kitchen floor, but he grits out, “Keep going, you stupid fuck.”_

  
_Anton crushes his head to the table and brings his elbow down hard on the back of his ribcage. Wolfgang feels a rib crack and he falls to the floor when Anton releases him._

  
_Anton starts to laugh. “That’s my son. Not some pathetic coward who just takes it.”_

  
_He walks away, and Wolfgang scrambles to the sink to throw up._

  
Wolfgang casts the bottle to the side of his bed, vision swimming; the walls seem to move like a film reel, up and down, flickering. He blinks when he notices moisture on his arm, and touches his fingers to it; when he pulls them away, he sees that they’re tinged with blood. He wrinkles his nose in annoyance and gets up, stumbling to the bathroom so he can exchange the bandage on his bicep; he assumes the wound came open when he was fighting Ajay, but the amount of vodka in his system disguised the pain. He begins to search for new gauze in the medical cabinet, and notices the bottle of oxycodone he keeps for serious injuries.

  
His gaze lingers on it and he touches his fingers lightly to it, considering. 

  
_Anton's fingers close around his throat and his back hits the wall. He shakes his head listlessly, tears springing._

  
_“Please don’t do this,” he says in a scratchy voice. “Please.”_

  
_Anton digs his nails into Wolfgang’s throat and his face twists with rage. “This is what you get, you faggot bitch…”_

  
_Anton begins to unzip his pants. Wolfgang closes his eyes._

  
He grips the bottle of pills in his hand and pours one into his palm. He swallows it with water from the sink. He pauses for a moment, devoid of all sensation; then the surge of reckless disregard he was waiting for comes. He pours more pills into his hand and swallows one after the other. He returns to his bed, drinks the very last of the vodka, and lies down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is nonstop Kalagang interaction, I promise.


	4. Uncurling lifelines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kala and Wolfgang talk. Kala meets Irina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is surprisingly all Kala's POV, so the next chapter will be Wolfgang's.

 

* * *

  

_You'll find a rooftop to sing from_  
_Or find a hallway to dance_  
_You don't need no edge to cling from_  
_Your heart is there, it's in your hands_

  
Kala presses a cold towel to her face and winces at the contact. She hunches over the bathroom sink, breath hissing through her teeth. Ajay has hit her like this before, but not often, and she’s sure she’ll spend the next week ashamed to go out and to meet anyone’s eyes. She looks reluctantly into the mirror -- her eye has ballooned, purple and green, and her lip is split down the middle like an overripe plum. She breathes out and closes her eyes; then she bares her teeth, sobbing, shoulders sinking. She gives herself to the moment, grieving unapologetically.

If her mother saw her now, she would weep; if her father saw her, he would struggle to stand. But they do not see her -- she is alone in this, one girl, one black eye, one split lip, and one husband, collapsed on the bed.

She presses the towel to her face one more time, then dries it gently with a new towel. She looks at herself again and envisions how much worse it might be if Wolfgang hadn’t interfered.

_Wolfgang._

Her mind drifts to him. She had no choice but to send him away, but she wishes she hadn’t; she wishes Ajay, Sergei, and Steiner had sunk into the floor as if it was tar; she wishes she had gone to him to express her gratitude.

She glances out of the bathroom at Ajay on the bed -- he’s asleep, almost unconscious. The thought of Wolfgang tugs at her like wind through late-fall leaves, barely clinging to the branches. She breathes out again, more slowly, through her nose.

A simple thank you couldn’t hurt. Two words, perhaps the smallest touch, a moment of eye contact.

She exits the bathroom, tiptoes through the bedroom, and goes into the hall. She pauses at Wolfgang’s door and knocks. No response. She knocks more vigorously after a moment, but still, nothing. She doubts he is angry -- at least, not angry enough to exclude her. She frowns. He could be asleep, but her last knock was so loud she worried she woke the rest of the house.

She considers, hesitant; then she twists the knob and pushes the door open.

She blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and sees him in bed. Her frown deepens and she walks forward slowly; three feet away, her instinct responds before her mind. She throws herself forward, horrified, and shakes him insistently.

"Wolfgang!"

She knows, without knowing how, that he isn’t breathing. She kneels on the bed as she shakes him, sickened, thrown, and bewildered. She sees a small pill roll along the covers and she takes it in her fingers, squinting. It’s light pink, with the number _93_ on one side, and the number _31_ on the other. Oxycodone. Kala looks from the pill in her hand to the empty bottle on the floor and her eyes darken in dread.

She shakes him harder. “Wolfgang? Wolfgang, please! Oh my God, oh my God…”

She starts to cry and picks up his hand, noting the blue coloration.

“No, no,” she whispers, pressing her fingers insistently to his wrist to find a pulse. She doesn’t feel one and she breathes out hard. “Oh, God, please no…”

She shakes him and he remains motionless, so she wipes her eyes and seizes his phone. She slides her thumb across the screen, praying an emergency contact is listed -- there is one: Felix Berner. She sends the call and presses her ear to the phone.

A man answers groggily. “Wolfie, the fuck? It’s like two in the morning…”

“It’s not Wolfgang, please, are you his friend? Please can you help me?”

“Shit, hold on, this sounds bad--”

“He took too many pills, I can’t get him to wake up--”

“What? Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter, please, I need you to help me, I can’t call an ambulance, his family won’t let one in the drive, I’m sure of it,” she whispers desperately. “I’m going to try and help him, I have some medical knowledge, but please hurry--”

“Fuck, fuck, how -- how bad is it?” asks the man, voice grim.

“I’m not sure he’s alive. Please hurry. I would try to get him to a car myself but there’s no possibility of lifting him--”

“I’m coming,” says Felix.

“Thank you,” whispers Kala, and then she throws the phone aside.

She wipes her eyes again, then turns Wolfgang so he’s on his back. She tries to breathe steadily, trembling, and she glances wildly over her shoulder. She pauses for a fraction, then rushes to the door, locks it, and hurries back.

She takes a deep breath, then quickly ties her hair back, holds his nose closed, and leans down to breathe into his mouth. She shuts her eyes to concentrate, ignoring the running commentary in her mind -- _Why do you care? Why does he matter to you?_ She tips his chin up to improve his airway and pauses briefly, out of breath. She links her hands together and presses hard on his chest, simulating a heartbeat, and then returns to CPR.

_Nalo...naloxitone?_ Her mind searches for the drug she should administer, though she doubts anyone in the house has it. The name of it exists in a shadowy, unexplored part of her brain -- she read about it once, maybe twice. _Nalo…_

She restarts chest compressions, glancing frantically at his expression, which is still listless.

_Naloxone!_

She darts to the bathroom and rifles through several cabinets. She can’t explain it -- she doubts she’ll ever fully understand -- but she is determined in a way she never has been to ensure he lives through this. She would give him her last breath if it meant he didn’t die -- not now, not like this. She blinks back tears and her hands seize upon a first aid kit. She hefts it down to the floor and kneels to open it. It’s extensive, which she realizes makes sense; hospitals are often out of the option for mobsters, and their injuries are often severe.

“Please, please,” she prays under her breath as her slim fingers pick up and discard bandages, gauze, and tools. “Please.”

Then, in a small kit, she finds a dark brown bottle and several syringes. The label reads Narcan, which she thinks is a brand name for naloxone. She grits her teeth, unsure; then she decides it’s worth a try -- she doubts anything will work at this point.

She hurries back to the bedroom and feels for Wolfgang’s pulse again. She swallows hard when she doesn’t feel it, and then she draws a dose of narcan into a syringe and flicks the side of it to eliminate air bubbles. She rummages in his bedside drawer, hoping for scissors -- she finds cigarettes, a cartridge of bullets, a collection of scribbled notes, condoms, and uncapped pens. She hisses, then grips the fabric of his shirt at the shoulder and rips it open with all her strength. She plunges the syringe into the muscle of his arm and dispenses the drug.

She leans over once more to breathe into his mouth, alternating with chest compressions. Her muscles begin to ache after five minutes of this, her hope begins to fail. She pauses, collapsing in a chair nearby; she hunches over, pressing her face into her hands, feebly sobbing. Then she shakes her head, gets up, and administers another dose of narcan. She squeezes his shoulders and stares at him, anguished and imploring.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."

She swallows and stares at him for a moment more. She clenches her teeth, fingers lingering on his shoulders. Then she sniffles hard and gets onto the bed next to him. She straddles him, hands on his chest, weeping.

“Wake up,” she mumbles. “Just wake up. Please.” She shakes him hard. “Wake up.”

He doesn't respond and she exhales hard, tears abating, grief replaced by anger at herself for being ineffective. She glances at the clock on the bedside table, calculating; she’s been here five minutes and he’s still unresponsive. She looks back at him, and then she presses her hands to his chest with renewed force, determined. After a few more minutes, she reaches for the last syringe and draws out the last milliliters of what she hopes is naloxone.

She watches him for a moment, evaluating, and she notices a flicker of movement under his eyelids. She breathes in hard and presses two fingers to the artery under his jaw -- she finds a pulse, a faint one, but a pulse nonetheless.

“Thank God, thank God,” she says, crying again. “Oh my God. Thank God.”

He blinks, then groans deeply. She puts her hands on either side of his face and looks at him with open affection. He shakes his head slightly and coughs. She lifts off of him and takes his wrist to continue monitoring his pulse.

“What...what are you doing?”

She doesn’t respond, adjusting the light on the bedside table to shine in his face. He blinks rapidly and groans again.

“Follow my finger,” she instructs.

“What--”

“Follow my finger. Your brain didn’t have any oxygen for a long time.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Please,” sighs Kala. “Please. I’ll explain later. Please do this for me.”

“Why are you here?”

She drops her hands at her side, then puts them on her hips, unsure how to proceed. He tries to sit up, but shakes his head again and slumps. She’s about to speak, but there’s a knock on the door. Her eyes widen; Wolfgang’s do too, and he looks in alarm at the door. She hurries across the room and looks through the crack, whispering, “Who is it?”

“Felix,” says an anxious voice on the other side.

She breathes out in relief and unlocks the door, and shuts it quickly after he enters. She takes in the lanky, disheveled man, but doesn’t have the capacity to study him in detail at the moment. He rushes up to Wolfgang, eyes frantic, and grips his shoulders.

“What the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you? Fuck, Wolfie! She said you were dead!”

Kala slowly approaches them, cautious, reluctant to intrude. She hugs herself as she watches them.

“I thought he was,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but it...it took a lot to wake him up.”

Felix shakes his head for a long time, gaze never leaving his friend. “Why, man? Why? What the fuck do you do this for?”

“What…”

Kala sighs softly -- it’s clear that Wolfgang is embarrassed to ask the question he wants to. _What happened?_

“You took a bunch of pills, man,” says Felix quietly. “Shit, you don’t even remember, do you? How fucking drunk were you?”

Wolfgang’s eyes trail to the empty bottle of vodka and he shrugs, gaze downcast. “Drunk.”

“Yeah, really fucking drunk,” says Felix with a heavy exhale. “ _Fuck_.”

Kala swallows, stepping slightly closer. “I -- I think he should go to your house, if his family finds out about this they’ll never look at him the same way, and he’ll need at least a day to recover.”

Felix turns and looks at her for a moment. She feels his gaze on her swollen eye, her broken lip. He gestures at her.

“What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Who are you, again?”

She breathes in hard. “I’m. I’m Ajay Kapoor’s wife. I’m Kala.”

“Oh, fuck, what?” says Felix in disbelief. “Why did you...why did you save him? Are you fucking him? Bad idea--”

“No,” says Kala impatiently. “I just -- I just found him. I know something about medicine. I did what anyone would do.” She rubs her arm uncomfortably. “Who are you?”

“I’m his friend,” says Felix.

“The way Will is his friend?”

Felix covers his face. “Fuck, why do you know this much? No. Shit, no thank you. I mean, I love him, but no. We’re brothers.”

“How the fuck do you know about that?” mumbles Wolfgang.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Kala sharply. “You need to go to Felix’s--”

Felix shakes his head. “His mother is there, no can do--”

“I’m staying here…” says Wolfgang groggily.

“I need to monitor him, and I cannot do that with my husband in the next room,” says Kala firmly. “I can’t be in here. You know what he’ll think.”

Felix squints and gestures in confusion. “Well, what will he think if you’re not here at all?”

“He’ll think I took a walk.” She pauses and glances down. “He isn’t happy with me right now. He won’t be surprised if I took a walk.”

No one speaks for a moment, and then Wolfgang heaves himself out of bed and pushes Felix and Kala towards the door

“I’m fine--”

Kala whips around and snarls, “Don’t you dare. You are coming with us. You nearly died. “

“Exactly, fuck off.”

Kala breathes hard, stung, and says quietly, “You are coming with us.”

“Wolfie, she’s right,” says Felix reluctantly. “C’mon. You’re in bad shape. Think about what would happen if Steiner or your uncle saw you like this.”

Wolfgang breathes out, looking down, and stumbles on his feet. Kala swallows and steps beside him, then puts an arm around his shoulders and pats his bicep.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, meeting Felix’s eyes, wanting guidance. He nods encouragingly so she continues, “Please just come with us. You can sleep all this off.”

He nods dully after a moment and tries to walk towards the door, but stumbles again. Felix silently takes his other side and they guide him out of the room. They pause in the door, giving Kala a chance to dash back into the room and clean up the pills, vodka, and empty syringes. She puts on a heavy coat and returns to the door, and she and Felix help Wolfgang down the dark hall, down the stairs, and past the den. Kala silently praises God that no one is awake at this late hour.

They continue outside into the frigid hush of the night, to Felix’s car -- a beat-up red BMW, missing one window. Wolfgang shifts into the passenger’s seat, leans his head back, and closes his eyes with a short groan. Kala tightens her coat and casts a final, frightened glance at the manor; she knows, without understanding how, that the moment she gets in the car with these two men, her life will irreversibly change course.

She gets in. She looks at Wolfgang in the rearview mirror. She exchanges a glance with Felix, who she feels inexplicably close to. She isn’t sure if it’s the circumstances, the hour, or the cold, but she feels affection she hasn’t felt since her family died. She tries to smile reassuringly, and then she puts her hand on Wolfgang’s shoulder and squeezes.

“How do you feel?” she asks as Felix pulls out of the drive.

“Why do you care?” he mumbles.

She swallows and squeezes his shoulder again. He glances at her hand, perturbed, then at her.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I...I don’t know,” she says breathily. “You...earlier, you stopped Ajay, it would have been much worse if you hadn’t. I -- I care about you. Thank you.”

He laughs humorlessly. “Right.”

“Why is it so hard for you?” she whispers.

“You’re welcome. Happy?”

She pulls her hand away and leans back, gaze fixed out the broken window. Felix shakes his head but says nothing and her eyes track the crumbling glass of the window. She touches her fingers to it, and for a moment imagines herself as a giant, placing her fingers on a great mountain ridge; she wonders occasionally if her faith is inaccurate; if God is just an invincible, depraved man, moving the pieces and the people for his own entertainment; tonight, any alternative is difficult to believe.

She quickly touches her fingers to her eyes to collect sudden tears. The depth of her feelings confuses and worries her; it’s as if she traded lives with a woman who has lived here all her life, who has always loved this man, this stupid, selfish man. She breathes out slowly and looks with caution at Wolfgang. She wants to hold him. She wants to give him worth and warmth and affection. She swallows hard as she drinks in the sight of him -- simple things like the shape of his ear and the slight tilt of his shoulder move her. She looks at her lap, eyes closed, but his image remains in her mind.

She insists to herself that this is uncomplicated gratitude for his actions earlier, but gratitude has never compelled her like this; she has never wanted to give every piece of herself to someone without hesitation or complaint. She knows, though not from experience, exactly what this feeling is, but she refuses to name it and give it any more power than it already has.

She shivers as the wind cuts through the broken window. The car slows after ten minutes on a heavily-treed street, and Felix parks it in front of a locksmith shop.

“Where’s my mother?” asks Wolfgang.

“Couch,” says Felix. “I’ve got an old mattress somewhere, I’ll find it…”

“Why is his mother here?” Kala asks as she steps out of the car.

Felix shakes his head. “His father was being an asshole again, wasn’t safe for her…”

Kala looks unsurely at Wolfgang, hoping for an explanation, but he says nothing. She rounds the car with Felix to help him, but he shakes them off and walks unsteadily to the door. She looks at Felix, who glances down and doesn’t speak for a long time.

“I don’t think he wanted you to help him,” he says finally.

Kala chews gently on her cheek. “Why not?”

“Not my place,” mumbles Felix. “He’s had deep shit happen to him, bad shit.” They hang back another moment, and Felix adds, “I thought you just got here, how come you care about him like this?”

Kala shakes her head, eyes fixed ahead, and she says without needing to think, “We both had...how did you put it?

“Had deep shit happen?” says Felix with a small laugh.

She nods humorlessly. “Yes.”

Then she walks up to the shop, Felix trailing her, and goes inside. The front of the shop includes a counter and a wide selection of keys and accessories, but behind this, there is a kitchen and a small living room. Wolfgang is standing motionlessly here, looking without expression at his mother, who is curled up under a thick gray blanket on the couch.

Kala pauses -- the woman in front of her seems scarcely older than Wolfgang; her features are soft and youthful, except for her dark, expressive brows. Her face is badly bruised and her lip is split, like Kala’s.

Kala looks at Felix with apprehension and whispers, “He...he hits her? His father?”

“You have no fucking idea,” says Felix quietly.

“God,” says Kala, putting a hand on her heart. “She’s -- she’s so young.”

“Yeah, she had him when she was sixteen,” says Felix.

“Enough,” says Wolfgang sharply. “I want to go to sleep.”

Felix shakes his head in annoyance. “Asshole.”

He looks at Kala apologetically before departing from the living room in search of his extra mattress. She hugs herself, unsure where to go, and Wolfgang walks into the kitchen and takes a seat at the table. He rubs his face hard and Kala watches from the living room.

Then she looks at his mother again, noting the way she holds herself when she sleeps, legs tucked against her chest like a child. She lets her gaze linger, and then she walks quietly into the kitchen and sits next to Wolfgang.

When he doesn’t speak, she murmurs, “Will you let me do that cognitive function test now?”

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You don’t know that,” she says.

“I said no,” he replies.

“You would have died--”

“Did you consider that was the point? Fuck off.”

She holds herself stiffly and sits still. She listens to Felix rummage upstairs and considers getting up to help him, but she doubts leaving Wolfgang alone is advisable. She clasps her fingers tightly and looks at them in her lap. She closes her eyes against the images of the night -- shaking him, praying, wildly searching for the right drug to revive him. Her jaw clenches unconsciously and her nostrils flare.

“I can’t believe you would do something so selfish,” she whispers.

He blinks, affronted, and brusquely says, “Fuck you.”

She inhales hard, shaken and hurt, but finds the strength to hiss, “Selfish. Stupid and selfish. You have a mother--”

He turns so he can confront her directly. “You don’t know anything about my life.”

She opens her mouth to speak, startled. “I -- I know enough.”

“You don’t,” he says flatly. “Want to know every shit detail about my life so you can make a fair assessment?” He smirks coldly, eyes bright with anger. “I’ll give you that. My mother had me when she was sixteen because my father raped her. She’s been losing her mind since I was born. I’ve had to take care of her since I was a child. My father beat her every day, sometimes so badly I thought she would die. He did the same to me, never for a good reason, and when I got too old to be afraid of getting hit, he found alternatives. I have no reason to stay alive. I have no obligation to stay alive.”

Kala swallows, jolted, tears coursing down her cheeks. She shakes her head. “I have had terrible things happen to me too and I would never--”

“Congratulations,” interrupts Wolfgang with a cold laugh.

“Why would you kill yourself instead of leaving?” she asks, frustrated.

“Leaving doesn’t fix anything--”

“Neither does killing yourself!”

“Yes it does. No more bad memories.”

Kala breathes out and shakes her head. “You...you could talk to someone--”

“Who?” asks Wolfgang indignantly. “You? Fuck off. I want all this shit to stop and I know how to make that happen.”

She shakes her head again. “You’re barely older than I am, you have an entire life, you -- you could leave, and find someone you love, and--”

“And do what? Get lobotomized so I can’t remember everything that’s happened to me?”

“You don’t have to forget!” she whispers heatedly. “You have to replace what hurt you in the past with what is good in the present.”

Wolfgang gestures. “Yeah, there’s so much to choose from--”

“Find something!” argues Kala. She takes a steadying breath and grips the underside of the table, fighting a wave of hot jealousy. She forces herself to continue. “I met Will...I...I think he still loves you, you could--”

“No,” says Wolfgang emphatically.

She swallows. “It -- it must have been difficult considering your family’s beliefs. Do...do they know?”

“Everyone but my uncle,” says Wolfgang with a tight-lipped smirk. “My father is an illogical pig and thought he could teach me not to be like that if--” He stops himself.

“What?” murmurs Kala kindly.

He shakes his head and glances down. He rubs his hand over his stubble and says very softly, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Kala studies him for a moment, and then she inhales in realization; her shoulders soften in grief and horror, and the tension between her and Wolfgang dissolves. She presses closer to him and takes both of his hands and he looks at her in astonishment.

She meets his eyes, tears streaming over her cheeks, and says, “I lost my entire family when I was sixteen. They died in a car accident. Ajay was the only person I knew at the time, and I didn’t consider the fact that I was still a child when we met. He convinced me to trust him, and as soon as I did, he took advantage of me and he has never stopped.” She pauses, tears multiplying, and swallows hard. “I am completely alone. No one would miss me if I died, and I’ve...I’ve thought of doing what you did. But I can’t possibly know that the future won’t be better. I’m even studying medicine and I…” She glances at him cautiously. “I’m going to be a police informant.”

He stares at her. “You -- what?”

She shakes her head, silently weeping. “Ajay shot that girl, Wolfgang, he didn’t hesitate. He’s an evil man, and so are the men in your family.”

Wolfgang wrinkles his brow. “You saw him do that?”

“He made me go with them,” says Kala in a small voice.

Wolfgang breathes out heavily. “Fuck.”

Kala nods. “I know.” She wipes her eyes. “I knew before then that he’s an evil man, of course I did, but...well, I had never seen him kill an innocent person…” She brings her sleeve over her hand to dry her face, and says quietly, “You should help me.”

“I can’t--”

“You should help me,” she says insistently. “Take their lives away the way they took yours. You would get immunity. You would be safe, and free.”

He’s about to speak, but Felix appears, hauling a small mattress. “Sorry that took so long, it was buried under a ton of shit upstairs.” He lets it down with a flop and rubs the back of his head. “Probably the most room here. I’ll get some blankets…”

Then he trails off, looking at their entwined hands.

Wolfgang quickly pulls his hands away and looks down. Kala blushes, eyes wide.

“Right,” mutters Felix, stepping around the mattress to reach the counter. “Wolfie, you want some coffee or something?”

Wolfgang shakes his head. Kala works her bottom lip in her teeth.

“I’ll have tea, if you don’t mind,” she says shyly.

Felix nods. “Sure.”

Then Wolfgang shrugs and says, “Me too.”

Felix shifts a teapot on the stove and turns the dial. He digs through a box on the counter to find two tea bags. The teapot whistles after a moment and he quickly moves it off the heat so Irina doesn’t wake. He makes the tea and hands over two mugs, and Kala blows the steam off of hers and smiles gratefully at him.

“Thank you,” she says. “I hate the cold.” She adds to Wolfgang, “Your stomach may not be strong enough to drink anything yet, so be careful.”

“Aren’t you still drunk?” wonders Felix.

“The medication most likely interrupted that,” says Kala, sipping her tea. “I would appreciate it if you let me perform that cognitive test--”

“Are you this persistent with other men?”

She squeezes his arm. “I don’t mean to embarrass you--”

“You’re not,” he says softly. “But use your head. I’ve held a conversation with you for ten minutes. I’m okay.”

She nods reluctantly and drinks her tea. Felix sits with them with his own mug and rests his head in his hand, looking at Kala.

“You want something for your face?” he asks. “I think I’ve got some, like, fucking steak or some shit in the freezer--”

She smiles and shakes her head. “No, no thank you.”

Felix shrugs. “Okay. Your husband can fuck himself, by the way."

Kala spits out a bit of tea and laughs. “Um -- thank you?”

Felix nods. “You’re welcome.” Then he turns to Wolfgang. “I’m going to fucking kill you if you off yourself. I’ll dig you up and kill you again.”

Wolfgang nods. “Great.” Then he says, “Oh, fuck,” and glances at his bicep. “Fuck, I meant to change that, do you have any of that shit?”

Kala squints. “Change what?”

“I got shot last week,” he explains. “Opened up again when I punched Ajay--”

“When you what?” asks Felix, but he shakes his head and holds up his hands. “Not fucking surprising. Never mind. Yeah, it’s upstairs, I’ll get it--”

Wolfgang shakes his head and gets up. “It’s okay.”

He starts towards the stairs, but Kala gets to her feet and follows, apprehensive. He glances over his shoulder.

“You can leave me alone for five minutes, calm down--”

“No,” says Kala.

He exhales harshly and shakes his head. “Fine. Want to come Felix? Invite the neighbor too.”

“God, go,” sighs Kala, gently touching his shoulder to coax him.

They go up the stairs together and Wolfgang flips on the lights in Felix’s diminutive bathroom. He opens a cabinet over the toilet and pulls out a small box of bandages and gauze, then massages his arm, wincing.

“Who shot you?” murmurs Kala, walking her fingertips along the chilly counter to soothe her nerves.

“Don’t know,” he says, and then he takes off his shirt.

Kala knows she should have expected this, but she didn’t. She breathes in sharply, then swallows and sets her jaw. She knows, after a night like tonight, she should avoid erotic thoughts, but she found him undeniably attractive the moment she met him in the hall, and her strategy to think of him while with Ajay didn’t improve matters.

She bites her bottom lip and lifts her gaze from his abdominal muscles, only to see him looking at her with incredulous, sea-green eyes.

He gestures between them. “Read the room.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, eyes wide and horrified. “I -- um -- I wasn’t expecting.” She clears her throat and takes the box of bandages from him. “I’ll help. I know what to do.”

He almost laughs. “Okay, Kala…”

She sets the box on the counter and he pulls the old, bloodied bandage off while gritting his teeth.

“Fuck,” he mumbles at a spurt of fresh blood.

“You have to be careful with bullet wounds,” says Kala gently.

“I didn’t know that,” he says.

“Could you possibly be direct? Just for a moment?”

He doesn’t answer, reaching for a cloth in the box and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

“Let me,” says Kala, stopping his hand. “I like medicine. I’m good at it.”

He looks at her for a moment, and she glances at their hands, which are touching. She swallows her guilt and her terror that she’s falling, and meets his eyes steadily. He eventually nods, turning and leaning on the counter so she has access to his arm.

She puts the hydrogen peroxide away and takes a bottle of saline out of the kit.

“This may be quite painful. I need to irrigate the wound so it doesn’t get infected. How did you do that before? Did you just use hydrogen peroxide?”

“Think so,” he says.

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t remember, Will did it, not me.”

She pauses in her effort to uncap the saline, mouth dry, heart pounding. “Oh. Do...do you two still…?”

“No,” he says flatly. “We see each other sometimes. It’s nothing.”

“It...it doesn’t have to be nothing if you still--”

He shakes his head. “No, the feeling’s gone.”

“Well, maybe yours is,” she murmurs, opening the saline the rest of the way and shooting a steady stream of it into the wound.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, gripping the countertop.

“He’s the one I talked to about being an informant,” she continues, squinting in concentration as she irrigates the wound. “He climbed through your window. I’m sure you broke his heart.”

“This is bad enough without you talking about him,” he tells her.

She presses her lips together, but decides to relent -- she’s asking only out of jealousy, and she knows he’s been through enough tonight.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, adding, “You should come with me to his office tomorrow.”

“Kala, I can’t do that,” he says, just as soft.

She nods, and despite the fact that she knows better than to speak these words, she says, “I like how you say my name.”

He stops breathing and his muscles tense. If Kala could see outside, she’s sure the snow would stop falling; the cars would cease in place; the passage of time would slow.

He looks at her for a moment, suspended. She breathes out, eyes dark and sanguine, and he gently passes his knuckles down her arm. She shivers.

He glances down, breath still held, and finally he says, “Thank you. For what you did. I was drunk and I wouldn’t have done that if I wasn’t.”

She nods, chin tilted up, proud of him. She smiles slightly and he smiles back, and then she gives his bicep a gentle squeeze.

“Can I stitch you up?” she asks.

“Do you know how?” he asks with a frown.

“I have...practiced on raw chicken?” she says optimistically.

He looks at her for a moment, and then he tilts his head down and chuckles. “Fuck. Sure.”

She grins and puts on latex gloves. Then she takes an envelope marked “needles” from the box, digs for thread, finds a small spool of it, and threads the needle. She sterilizes it with rubbing alcohol and looks expectantly at Wolfgang.

“Have you had stitches before?” she asks.

“Should have plenty of times, but I never made it to the doctor,” he replies.

She nods and steps closer, grimacing slightly as she gathers the edges of the wound together and passes the need through for the first time.

“Why chicken?” he asks.

“Chicken skin is very similar to human skin,” she replies. “Which is not something I suggest you think of the next time you eat chicken…”

He smiles. She smiles too, relaxing -- she assumes he’s relieved that she isn’t disconsolate, that she is can joke, that she isn’t treating him as wholly broken. She decides she’ll do this the rest of the night; she’ll make him feel safe, unashamed; she’ll accept, for now, that what happened was closer to a drunken mistake than it was to an intentional surrender.

She peers more closely at her work, watching the needle, leaving the sutures loose so she can pull them neatly taut at the end.

“You want to be a doctor?” he asks after a moment.

She nods. “I do.”

“Why?” he asks.

She smiles. “Medicine has always fascinated me. When I was a girl, my aunt always kept videos of American television shows, she said they would open my mind. I’m not sure my mother liked that, but Auntie thought perspective was important. And there was one show, only one episode, I never saw any others, where a group of children and their teacher used a…” She grins. “A magic school bus to travel through the human body. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I would meet someone, and instead of thinking about something normal, I would think about what their...tricuspid valve looked like.” She laughs at herself. “So yes, I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, and I think I could get a good score on the entrance exams for school if I studied a few more months.”

“You’re leaving Ajay?” he asks, with no surprise in his voice.

“I have to.” She trails off, needle paused. “I want to.”

He nods and she looks at him, but his gaze is on her fingers. She notices how big he is next to her, how slender her fingertips appear as she passes the needle back and forth. She finishes a final stitch and pulls the sutures tight. She clips the thread and he relaxes at the absence of the needle. She presses a bandage over the sutures, then puts things away, waiting for his response.

After a moment, he says without looking at her, “I’ll go with you. To Will’s office.”

She fumbles a package of band-aids and looks at him in shock. “You will?”

He nods, glancing up, mouth tight, eyes cautious. “I don’t want this anymore.”

She nods too, more slowly, and whispers, “It’s...it’s strange how someone can recognize the difficulty in another person’s life, but not in their own...and they only see themselves through the other person.” She pauses before continuing, even more quietly, “Do...do I remind you of yourself?”

“No,” he murmurs. “No, you remind me of my mother. I can’t let her stay here. She’ll die here.” He takes a breath. “And so will I, and so will you.”

“Not now,” says Kala solemnly.

“Maybe not,” agrees Wolfgang.

“Do you promise you’ll come?” she asks.

He nods, looking in her eyes. “I promise.”

She holds his gaze for a moment, searching for dishonesty or manipulation, but she finds none. Her jawbone jumps slightly as she studies him, as she considers her next move. She eventually nods, teeth cutting into her bottom lip.

“I will,” he insists, touching his thumb to the corner of her mouth so she lets her lips soften.

She nods again, and then she looks down tearfully and says, “Thank you. And thank for earlier, you didn’t have to stop him, it happens so often and I’m used to it--”

“I didn’t have to, I wanted to,” he says gently. “It’s not right.”

She shakes her head. “You-- you’re a man, you grew up with these men, why aren’t you like them?”

He clenches his jaw. “I am like them.”

“You’re not,” she whispers, pressing slightly closer. “I know, I know, you would never hurt me.”

“No,” he agrees. “But that’s because of my mother--”

“But it rarely works that way,” she says. “Most abused children grow up to be abusive themselves. No. There’s something about you, about your nature.” She sniffles and wipes her face quickly. “You’re a good man.”

He glances down and shakes his head. “You don’t know enough about me to say that. Trust me.”

“You are," she insists. 

He snorts and shakes his head again. Her heart patters frantically on her ribs as she watches him. The voice in her head that told her to marry Ajay, to be quiet and uncomplaining, struggles as if it’s slipping underwater. The voice in her head that told her to warn Wolfgang about her husband, to insist to a strange CIA agent that she wanted to help, rises higher.

She swallows, takes one step closer, and puts her arms around Wolfgang’s neck. Then she hugs him tightly, nose tucked against his chest.

“Kala, what are you--”

“I couldn’t explain it if I tried,” she whispers.

He doesn’t react at first, stiff, surprised. Then he hugs her close, one hand in her curls, one low on her back. He kisses the side of her head and she relaxes, then sobs.

“Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing her.

Her mind is a sea of fragmented declarations and dangerous admissions -- none of which she can say. _I’ve never felt safe like I do with you. You make me feel something I’ve never felt. Thank God you didn’t die. Thank God, thank God..._

He rubs her back as she continues to cry; she lifts her arms higher around his neck, her body flush against his. After a moment, he squeezes her again and glances down, attempting to look at her; his expression is confused but kind.

“I’m -- I’m okay,” he says; his tone suggests that he’s unsure if his near-miss was what prompted her outburst.

She calms slightly, though she knows this unspokenly communicates that he got it right, that she’s crying because she was worried for him. She nods for a long time, then steps away from him, face flushed and wet.

“I…” she trails off, unable to explain herself.

He shakes his head to show she doesn’t have to. He touches her waist gently so she goes out of the bathroom, and they go downstairs together. Felix is still in the kitchen, now smoking a cigarette, and he looks at them with apprehension.

He gets to his feet and says, “I got you some blankets, I’m going to fucking bed.”

Wolfgang nods and says, “Thanks.”

Felix nods too, extinguishes his cigarette, then glances at Kala. “Big chair in the living room, if you want to sleep.”

She smiles in thanks and he passes them, squeezing Wolfgang’s arm and shaking his head as he goes. They don’t move as he creaks up the stairs, and then Wolfgang breathes out and walks tiredly to the mattress on the floor.

Kala watches him, shaking, hugging herself. Then she sets her jaw and follows him. He looks at her cautiously as he turns down the covers, pausing. She fidgets, then breathes out in defeat and sits on the edge of the mattress. He lets the covers drop as he stares at her, and she gently pats the space next to her. His eyes widen slightly, but he sits there, and she leans her head on his shoulder.

“I’m going to sleep,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to watch me.”

“I should watch you,” she replies. “Your body has been through so much tonight. I want to make sure you are truly okay.”

He looks at her in surprise, then shakes his head, too exhausted to argue. She tongues over her bottom lip, then takes one of the pillows and puts it on her lap; his incredulous expression intensifies when she pats the pillow.

“I want to monitor you,” she breathes. “Naproxen and ethanol -- vodka, in your case -- counter-indicate each other.

“What the fuck is happening?” he murmurs, but he doesn’t argue, and he puts his head in her lap.

She pulls the covers over him, then slides her fingers through his hair and leans her head against the wall. She feels his body loosen after a moment, so she continues to weave her fingers in his hair, in hopes of soothing him quickly to sleep.

“My chest hurts,” he mumbles tiredly.

“Yes,” she replies softly. “I did chest compressions.”

He lifts his head up. “What?”

She nods.

“My -- my heart wasn’t beating?”

She shakes her head. “No, and you weren’t breathing. I -- I did CPR as well.”

He turns his head and stares at her. “Why would you do that much for me?”

She breathes in and simply touches his lips. He blinks, then sets his head back on her lap. He reaches behind him to put a gentle hand on her calf.

Then he turns again. “CPR, like…?” He pauses and gestures at his mouth.

She nods with a faint smile. “Yes.”

He looks at her for a moment without expression, and then he shakes his head, brow knitted.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“That’s enough,” she says. “Go to sleep. You need to sleep.”

He nods, nestling his face into the pillow on her lap. She moves her fingers through his hair again as he shuts his eyes.

_This is an affair._

_It is not an affair._

_Not yet._

_No. Be quiet._

Her brain bickers while her eyes study the ceiling, while her fingers trace the bone behind his ear, while her heart floats like a balloon a playful child released to the sky. She smiles serenely as the voices in her mind fade, replaced by pure sensation -- the weight of his head on her lap, the corn-silk feel of his hair, the sound of his breathing. Her smile transforms into a giddy grin.

She remembers when her father told her that his recipes came to him fully-formed, suddenly, like a gift. She asked how that was possible, and he explained that all the tinkering and deliberation happened unconsciously, that by the time he became aware of it, the recipe was complete, flawless.

She wonders tonight if love is a form of creation, if the same unconscious consideration occurs, if by the time it makes itself known, it is whole, pure, and undeniable.

She closes her eyes, tired enough to sleep sitting up, but only a moment after she does this, she is startled by a noise. She glances up, a protective hand on Wolfgang’s side, and sees Irina in the dim kitchen, staring at her like frightened, watchful cat. She breathes in, unsure what to say; she would inch away from Wolfgang to appear more innocent, but she is too reluctant to wake him.

“I--”

“I didn’t know Wolfgang had a girlfriend,” says Irina musingly.

Her tone of voice is softer than her expression; she sounds almost amused.

“But why are you here? Who are you?” She smiles and points at herself. “I’m Irina.”

Kala tries to breathe steadily. “I’m -- I’m Kala, I, we’re not…” She stops herself, sure Irina won’t believe the contention that she isn’t Wolfgang’s girlfriend. “Hello. Nice to meet you. We, um, we are here because…”

Irina steps closer as Kala falters, studying her son.

“He and his uncle got into a fight,” Kala settles on.

Irina nods slowly, but squints and says, “Don’t you have a place to live?”

“I...well…”

Kala stops when Irina’s eyes find her wedding ring. Her breath catches in her throat and she digs her toes into the mattress, skittish and full of dread.

“Oh,” murmurs Irina, and then she shrugs. “Well, my son was never smart in choosing who he loves.”

She steps even closer and her eyes settle on Kala’s face. Kala stiffens slightly as Irina reaches her hand out and squeezes her chin. Her eyes widen at the unusual gesture.

“Your husband?” asks Irina as she lets go.

Kala nods softly. “Yes.” Then, taking a risk, she says, “But, you...you should have seen what Wolfgang did to him.”

Irina clicks her teeth affectionately. “He has the biggest heart. Oh, he does. He can’t help himself. He has to protect everyone.” She nods. “He is the bravest man I know.”

Kala looks at Irina without speaking, contemplating her style of speech, her surety. There is something about her that is slightly off without being obvious, as if she goes through life as a blurry photo -- an undefined version of herself, best interpreted with double vision.

“He protects you too?” she inquires.

“Always,” says Irina. “Even when he shouldn’t.” She looks at him for a long moment, smiling. “So, how did you meet?”

Kala stiffens, dancing on the edge of a trap, unsure how to proceed. “We...met recently, actually.”

“Oh, already sleeping together I see,” laughs Irina.

Kala’s eyes widen and she tries her best to sound flustered but pleased. “Yes, well, he’s quite persuasive.”

Irina opens the fridge and takes out a jug of milk. She looks at Kala as she pours a glass. “I know you have a bruise, but you’re very beautiful.

Kala bites her lip. “Um, thank you. So -- so are you.”

“Oh, thank you,” says Irina. “I look like my mother, and Wolfgang…” She grins. “Well, he looks like his mother, like _me_ , thank God.”

Kala nods. “He has your eyes.”

She smiles. “He does.” Then she asks, all in one breath, Are you...let’s see, Pakistani? Indian? I love your hair. You have lovely hair. I can never get mine to curl like that.”

“Oh, Indian, yes, and--”

“Your German is very good.”

“Thank you, my husband has worked with the Bogdanows for many years, I learned quite a bit,” she explains.

“Well, you’re smart, I can barely understand Russian and all the men speak it,” says Irina. “But Wolfgang understands. He tells me what they say. Do you love him?”

Kala stares, caught off guard by the invasive, ill-timed question.

“I--”

“You don’t have to answer,” says Irina cheerfully. “But I would like to know.”

Kala is unsure what to do with this contradictory statement. She glances down at Wolfgang, and after experiencing a surge of frightening affection, she simply nods.

“Good,” says Irina. Then she points at the bandage on his arm and sips her milk. “What is that from?”

“Oh, just a scrape,” says Kala, nodding.

Irina nods too, then takes a seat at the kitchen table. She gestures at the pre-dawn outside. “I’m sorry, I wake up very early, I know you’re trying to sleep. Well, he is.” She frowns. “Why aren’t you sleeping too?”

“Oh, I…” Kala breathes out heavily, drawn to a half-truth. “He had a bit too much to drink, I just wanted to...to make sure he’s alright.”

Irina doesn’t move for a moment. Finally she whispers, “How much was too much? He -- he did this when he was sixteen. I swear he drank everything in the house. I spent all night with him on the bathroom floor.” She pauses. “But he was so happy tonight. We had dinner. Pizza.”

“Oh,” says Kala in surprise. “Well, I -- I suppose what happened with Sergei--”

“He drinks too much,” interrupts Irina sadly. “I -- I don’t blame him, but…” She shakes her head. “I would drink too but I’m... well, Anton says I was born drunk. My brain’s silly without any help.”

“I -- I don’t think you’re silly,” murmurs Kala.

“That’s sweet of you,” says Irina with a warm smile.

Kala looks into her eyes -- identical to Wolfgang’s, but slightly darker, framed by heavy brows. She sees herself in these eyes, in the guarded pain. She didn’t expect to be here tonight, let alone with Irina Bogdanow, but she experiences a strange alignment in the moment; she feels she’s come into contact with a woman whose life mirrors her own.

“Is he okay?” asks Irina.

Kala nods. “He is.”

“Okay,” says Irina gently. She shifts out of her seat, kneels, and briefly presses her hand to Wolfgang’s temple. Then she rises to her feet and cups Kala’s face. “Good to meet you. I’ll let you both rest.”

She walks out of the kitchen with her glass of milk and Kala stares at the empty door, intrigued and off-balance.


	5. A different kind of danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfgang tries to reconcile the past as his feelings for Kala grow.

_I'm gonna be free and I'm gonna be fine_   
_(Holding on for your call)_   
_I'm gonna be free and I'm gonna be fine_   
_(Maybe not tonight)_

Wolfgang blinks in the fierce winter light, reflecting outside on the snow, and groans feebly into the pillow. His head feels as if it’s in a vice and his muscles are depleted and tense. He shifts to a sitting position, bracing his hands on the mattress, eyes screwed shut to fight a wave of nausea. He clenches his jaw at the smell of eggs and bacon and hopes he can stand up without stumbling.

He’s just gripped a chair to steady himself when a voice interrupts his focus.

“Finally,” says Irina.

Wolfgang lets out all his breath. He doesn’t have the energy to manage his mother this morning. He opens his eyes, glancing around for Kala, but she isn’t beside him -- she’s standing near Irina, stirring a pan and sipping coffee from a mug.

“You need to be more careful,” Irina goes on, turning back to the stove. She takes some toast out of the oven. “And you need to eat something.”

He looks at her for a moment, pulse accelerating. He didn’t expect Kala to say anything to her, but nothing else explains this comment.

“You had a bit too much last night,” says Kala carefully.

He relaxes and glances down, assured now that his mother thinks too much vodka was the extent of last night’s events. He breathes in slowly to soothe his headache.

“Yeah,” he admits.

“You’re eating something,” Irina says firmly.

“I’ll throw up,” he mumbles.

“Just some toast,” coaxes Kala.

He nods again, eyes still downcast, and slowly rises to his feet.

“Fuck,” he mumbles emphatically.

“That’s what you get,” says Irina.

He wraps his fist around the back of the chair, leaning on it, and closes his eyes for another moment. The light off the fresh snowfall is too bright to endure and the action of standing caused the blood to rush out of his head, dizzying him. He’s sure he’s never felt this weak and the sensation frightens him.

He looks at Kala, who is wrapped in a blanket to stay warm; there are dark bags under her eyes and her lip today looks slightly worse. She’s hunched and hugging herself, clearly exhausted, and he feels a surge of embarrassment and regret.

He forces himself to walk up to the counter, pull a mug down, and pour a large helping of coffee.

“Where’s Felix?” he mutters.

“Still asleep,” says Kala.

He nods and takes a needy glug of coffee, stomach churning. He glances up when he feels his mother’s eyes on him and he stiffens, mug halfway up to his mouth.

“What?” he asks.

Irina looks from him to Kala, then back with a curious, confused expression. Kala looks up, as cautious as he is, and directs a wide-eyed, apologetic gaze at him. He frowns slightly and looks again at his mother.

“You can kiss in front of me, it’s alright,” Irina says with a bright nod.

The words ring in Wolfgang’s mind for a moment. Clearly, Kala said something inadvisable to his mother. He drinks his coffee to buy time, looking sidelong at Kala, who is fidgeting like a child put on the spot in front of the class. He raises an eyebrow softly at her to suggest it’s her responsibility to reply, considering she’s the one at fault for this.

“We -- we like to be private, it’s more respectful,” she stammers to Irina.

Irina shrugs and refreshes her coffee, then takes a long drink of it. She looks at Kala with a firm smile.

“You’re a strange girl,” she says as if it’s a compliment.

Wolfgang shakes his head slightly at his mother’s behavior. She turns towards him, still smiling, and drinks more coffee.

“But you’re strange too,” she goes on, nodding. Then she sets her cup down abruptly. “I’ll let you two finish breakfast, I want to shower before I eat because I’m cold, and bodies don’t digest food properly if you’re cold, did you know that?”

Wolfgang slowly nods, sure this is inaccurate, and Irina smiles wider, then starts up the stairs next to the kitchen. When she is safely out of hearing distance, he looks at Kala with narrowed eyes.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I -- I couldn’t say anything else. She got up in the middle of the night, your head was in my lap, I was…” She huffs. “I was, um, caressing your hair?”

Wolfgang tips his head back in annoyance. “What did you say?”

“That I’m your girlfriend,” admits Kala.

He nods. “Great, so we have to keep that up--”

“What else would I have said?” hisses Kala.

He gestures, eyes wide. “Anything else?”

“What?” demands Kala.

He lets his arms down and shakes his head. He picks up his coffee again, agitated, and drinks it down, then pours more. He softens slightly when he sees Kala hug herself and look down, and he breathes out and gently touches her arm.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles.

“We -- we won’t be around your mother often anyway, will we?” asks Kala hopefully.

He snorts. “She’ll want to see you every day. She’ll want to know everything about you.”

Kala sucks gently on her teeth and tilts her head, then murmurs, “Yes, I suppose it was a bad sign that she asked me my views on children while we were making coffee earlier.”

Wolfgang rubs his eyes and mumbles, “Fuck.” Then he glances at her. “Does she know who you are?”

Kala shakes her head softly, lips tight, and replies, “She knows I’m married, but not to who.” She pauses. “She didn’t seem surprised. She said you always have bad romantic taste.” Another pause, a shift in stance that betrays her nerves. “Speaking of that, I want to see Will.”

Wolfgang shakes his head. “You need to go back to the mansion before Ajay looks for you.”

“I don’t care about Ajay,” says Kala.

“Don’t be stupid,” Wolfgang replies shortly.

Her eyes flash. He shakes his head in annoyance at this. Then he notices that the pan on the stove is smoking and he shifts closer to turn the heat down. Kala gasps quietly at the smoke and quickly picks up a spoon to stir the eggs.

Wolfgang watches her from the side, then silently picks up a knife and begins to butter the toast to help her.

“You could be nicer,” she says softly.

He gestures with the knife. “What does this look like?”

Kala slowly shakes her head and stirs the eggs. “Why can’t men communicate like human beings?”

He pauses, debating whether to argue, and then he instinctively chuckles and continues to butter the bread. “I don’t know.”

Kala relaxes and faintly smiles; he stands slightly closer to her, flipping the bacon over.

“How is your head?” she asks after a moment.

He grunts quietly in response.

She smiles. “I’m sorry. Naloxone tends to leave a nasty headache. You may feel somewhat dizzy, too, or weak.”

He nods. “I’m exhausted.” Then he glances at her. “You don’t look great either.”

She breathes out, blinking, and gently shrugs. “I didn’t sleep. The conversation with your mother startled me. She loves you so much, I’m sure you’re the only person she’s ever loved like that, and I didn’t expect it. It must have been very hard for her to see what happened to you.”

Wolfgang doesn’t move for a moment, weighing his response. He’s never experienced intimacy or vulnerability without regret. He feels sick each time he remembers how much he told Will and it petrifies him that someone who knows the truth about him exists, capable at any time of telling anyone else.

“I know I told you what happened,” he says quietly, careful not to hurt her with his tone. “But you don’t own that now. It isn’t yours and you don’t get to start these conversations.”

She looks at him in surprise, holding still, but then she nods. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, don’t say that.”

“I am, I understand,” she says softly.

“Okay,” he replies. “Thank you.”

She nods again, then smiles gently and reaches for some plates above the stove. She plates some eggs, bacon, and toast and offers it to him, but he shakes his head, picks up the toast, and carefully takes a bite. He grimaces around it.

“You need something in your stomach,” says Kala encouragingly. “You’ll feel better.”

He breathes out and sits heavily at the table, eating the toast as slowly as possible. She sits down with him and eats a few bites of egg, then leans her head on her hand, closes her eyes, and yawns.

“I don’t want to go back,” she murmurs. “I want to talk to Will as soon as possible.”

Wolfgang considers, fingers tightening on his mug of coffee. He watches her for a moment, her soft, tired features, the worried crease on her forehead.

“I can’t always protect you from him,” he says quietly.

“No one has protected me from him for six years,” she says solemnly.

Wolfgang nods after another moment. “Where did Will say to go?”

“His office,” says Kala. “They won’t arrest you on sight, will they?”

“I don’t know,” admits Wolfgang.

Kala nods for a long time and sips her coffee. He smiles at this, finishing his toast, and then Felix arrives at the base of the stairs, yawning and blinking sleepily.

“Fuck, it’s late,” he mumbles as he steps into the kitchen and looks at the clock.

He glances at Wolfgang and Kala, then at the food on the stove. He plates himself breakfast and pours a cup of coffee before sitting next to them. He looks at Wolfgang and wrinkles his nose.

“You look like shit, Wolfie,” he says affectionately.

Wolfgang nods.

“You doing better though?” Felix checks.

Wolfgang shrugs and drinks his coffee. Kala nods at Felix to reassure him and is about to speak, but Irina comes in, toweling her hair off. She smiles at them all and nabs a slice of bacon out of the pan, turning to lean on the counter while she crunches it.

“Mausi, do you want anything from the market? I’m going there before your father looks for me.”

Wolfgang glances at his mother with a small, patient smile. “I’m twenty-four--”

She points at him with a strip of bacon. “You’re my son. You came out of me. I get to call you anything I want.”

He shakes his head, covers his face, and quietly groans. “Fine. No.”

“Not even those Zimtsterne?” she asks.

“I’ll take some, Mrs. Bogdanow,” says Felix seriously.

Irina chuckles and nods. “Okay.”

Wolfgang shakes his head again, but he smiles and says, “Sure.”

Irina beams and picks up another slice of bacon, then glances at Kala and smirks playfully. “I hope you know how to cook because he doesn’t. I could teach you his favorite things.”

Wolfgang feels Felix look at him, but he ignores it.

Kala nods vigorously. “I do, but yes, that would be very helpful.”

Irina nods too, pleased, and then she takes her coat off one of the chairs and puts it on. She adds a hat, scarf, and gloves, then leans to kiss Wolfgang’s temple; she squeezes both Kala and Felix’s arms, then departs with a silent wave.

“Mom, your hair is wet, you’ll--” Wolfgang cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Tschüss.”

The door clicks shut. He finishes his coffee and glances around for a package of cigarettes, but Felix interrupts his thought pattern.

“Cool, any reason your mom thinks you two are fucking?” he asks casually.

Wolfgang gestures silently at Kala.

Kala folds her arms and legs, cat-like, and huffs. “I had no choice. And I said we were dating, not--”

“Dating implies that, we’re not twelve,” says Wolfgang tersely.

“You aren’t, though, are you?” asks Felix. “I mean, wouldn’t be the first time Wolfie made a fucking questionable choice--”

“No!” sighs Kala, adding quickly to Wolfgang, “Can we go soon?”

“Go where?” inquires Felix.

Wolfgang glances unsurely at Kala.

Ten minutes later, sitting in the passenger’s seat of Felix’s car, Wolfgang finally closes his eyes and drowns out the barrage of questions and comments.

“This is so fucking stupid,” says Felix for the third time as he shoves his key in the ignition. “You can’t tell the police everything, they’ll eat you alive, and Wolfie he hates you, this is a trap--”

“Will wouldn’t do that,” mutters Wolfgang.

“You’re going to jail because you still think he’s some naive sunflower with a fucking heart of gold,” says Felix, adding, “police informant my ass, you’ve really lost it, knew the day would come and here we are…and this is your fault, Princess Jasmine, you saved his life and now he’ll do whatever you want.”

Wolfgang opens his eyes and glances at Kala in the rearview, noting her irked expression and her stiff body language.

“Felix, shut up, drive, you’re not changing my mind,” he says.

“You shut up, how could you be this dumb? Fuck, Wolfie! I haven’t felt like this since you told me you were living with a CIA agent -- speaking of, isn’t there a conflict of interest or whatever the fuck it’s called?

“I’m not sleeping with him--”

“You’re not _not_ sleeping with him!” interrupts Felix as he turns onto the road towards the American embassy.

Wolfgang shakes his head and glances out the window. “It’s been a while--”

“It’s been like two months--”

“Felix,” says Wolfgang firmly.

Felix relents and the car accelerates. Wolfgang leans his head back and lets his gaze drift as the buildings whir by. He’s beyond contemplation -- he made this decision without thought when Kala implored him to join her, and he has no patience for doubts now. Despite the danger from Ajay, he’s relieved Kala insisted they see Will this morning; this is an irreversible plunge and he’d rather get it over with.

He tells himself he would rather work with any agent but Will, but this isn’t true, and ultimately he knows this -- he trusts Will, despite the bad blood; he knows Will will do nothing intentional to entrap them.

_“No, no, shut up--”_

_Will cuts Wolfgang off by digging his thumb into his side and Wolfgang laughs hard, kicking him._

_“Fuck off--”_

_Will grins and laughs too, kissing him hard under his jaw. Wolfgang tries to push him away_ , _but ends up kissing him deeply instead, one hand tangled in his shirt. He pulls away, smiling, and slides his nose against Will’s._

_“Okay, your turn,” he mumbles._

_Will nods, laughing, and turns onto his back on the bed. He nudges the dish of cheese puffs closer to Wolfgang._

_“Open your mouth,” says Wolfgang._

_Will shakes his head, still chuckling, and complies. Wolfgang squints, looking up, and flicks one cheese puff into the air. Will attempts to catch it in his mouth, but it falls on the pillows._

_“Shitty shot, babe--”_

_“That was a good shot--”_

_“No,” says Will firmly. He glances at Wolfgang and laughs. “This is how we’re spending our day?”_

_“Fuck yeah,” says Wolfgang._

_Then he nuzzles his face into Will’s neck and puts an arm loosely around him. Will smirks gently and turns to meet his eyes. Wolfgang shrugs with a matching smirk._

_“It’s snowing, what else would we do?”_

_Will laughs, then furrows his brow as if in deep thought. “I can’t think of anything.”_

_“Yeah?” asks Wolfgang, popping the button of Will’s jeans. “I can’t think of anything either…”_

Wolfgang needily lights a cigarette and takes a long drag, looking through the foggy glass of the car window at a stoplight, watching a family huddle on the curb as they wait. The snow has commenced again, coming down now in crystalline flecks that reflect the sunlight, and the city is hushed, slow, everyone savoring the weekend. He flicks the ash off of his cigarette, itching to drink, and suppress the inevitable surge of memories.  
  
“What are you telling Lila about all this?” asks Felix as he hits the gas.

Wolfgang shakes his head. “Nothing.”

It would be simple to ask Felix to keep talking, to ask for a distraction, but doing so would admit weakness. He gives into memories instead.

_Wolfgang looks cautiously at his mother as she puts her feet up on the railing of Will’s porch, sipping lemonade while Will grills burgers, a kitchen towel over his shoulder, sunglasses on his head. They’re talking about how to make dough. Wolfgang is half thankful for the anxiety that seeing his boyfriend and his mother in the same room is producing. Otherwise, he would have fallen asleep._

_“So you use sour cream? Isn’t that too soft, then?”_

_Will shakes his head. “Nah, it works, and it keeps all the filling in the pierogi.”_

_“Oh, I see,” murmurs Irina._

_Wolfgang shakes his head in disbelief and closes his eyes, leaning back in the sun and drinking his beer. He expected his mother to ask misguided questions about their sex life and make other cringe-inducing comments he would later have to apologize for. Instead, she helped Will cook, remarked about the neatness of his apartment, and hugged him three times. Will insisted he wanted to meet her, Wolfgang insisted that it would end poorly, and now he’s is facing an “I told you so” conversation. He drinks more beer._

_“So your mother taught you all this?” Irina goes on. “That’s very sweet. I’m sorry she passed away.”_

_“Yeah, thanks,” says Will. “Well, my mom, and my grandma, and my aunts and all the women in my family.” He smiles. “Polish families can be pretty intense about collaboration in the kitchen.”_

_Irina laughs. “I like that. So you were only ten you said?”_

_“Yeah, yeah, and I think my dad never got over it,” says Will as he shuts the grill and sits next to Wolfgang with a fresh beer._

_Wolfgang glances at him, then at his mother, who has the intent expression which signifies her curiosity will trump her tact. He takes Will’s hand and smiles quickly at him. Will shakes his head slightly to show it’s okay and drinks his beer._

_“But at least they loved each other,” Irina goes on. “And they loved you. It sounds like a very nice family.”_

_“Yeah, it was,” says Will. “I was okay after a while, all of my dad’s friends were there for me after he was gone, and it’s been good just to get some distance. Figured if Diego got transferred, I’d try to move abroad too.” He laughs. “I know I work for my country but actually living there is frustrating.”_

_Wolfgang smirks. “Maybe if your government wasn’t run by incompetent billionaires you wouldn’t mind it as much.”_

_“Maybe you’re just a damn commie,” says Will, and Wolfgang laughs loudly._

_Irina chews on her straw, smiling around it._ _  
_

_“_ Wolfie? _Wolfie_?”

Wolfgang glances at Felix, startled. “Huh?”

Felix gestures to their left at a stately white building with American and German flags outside on the neat gardens. The car is stopped, idling in the chill, and Kala has already opened her door. Wolfgang quickly extinguishes his cigarette.

“Thanks, Felix,” he mumbles, getting out of the car.

He steps onto the curb and looks at Kala, who is stiff, regarding the building before them with wide-eyed trepidation. His gaze lingers on her as the car pulls away and he notices her move her wedding band around on her finger. She shifts on her feet, teeth digging into her bottom lip, and then she unclenches, all her breath pooling in the cold air in front of her.

His jaw twitches in hesitation, but he forces himself to close the distance between them, squeeze her arms, and look into her eyes. She holds her breath, meeting his gaze with unease, her fists clenching at her sides.

“This is the right thing to do,” he says quietly.

“Then why didn’t you do it sooner?” she whispers.

He bites his cheek and glances down. “I’m not used to doing the right thing.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” murmurs Kala.

He meets her eyes again, surprised by the intensity of her faith in him. He shakes his head and trails his hands down her arms.

“It is,” he says firmly.

He doesn’t elaborate that the reason he didn’t do this sooner is because he could never take such a risk for his own benefit alone, that he didn’t feel he deserved immunity or forgiveness. He doesn’t explain that he’s here for her.

“Why now?” asks Kala.

“It’s better they have two informants who can corroborate each other,” he replies.

She nods, then shivers. He gestures towards the building but she stays still for a moment, eyes still on him. He looks down again, gathering strength; he knows how warm he was towards her last night, but it’s harder now, dead sober and so nervous his fingers are twitching. He swallows, meets her eyes again, and gently puts a hand through her hair.

“Kala, it’s okay,” he says quietly.

She nods, breathing more easily.

“Okay?” he checks as he lets go of her.

She nods again, and then they turn and walk up the salt-strewn sidewalk to the entrance of the building. Wolfgang glances at her as they walk, noting her straight, determined gaze, and he nearly smiles. He thinks her strategy is likely to get them both killed, but he prefers that to a slow demise. He appreciates her fierce, impulsive attitude.

Once inside, she says briskly to the receptionist, “Kala Kapoor to see Will Gorski, thank you.”

Her assumptive tone startles the receptionist but brings no argument and, a moment later, they are given guest passes and directed to walk through a metal detector.

Wolfgang pauses, annoyed, and mumbles, “I’ll save you the trouble.”

He takes a Glock from his side, another from his boot, and a set of brass knuckles from his pocket. He also removes a pocket knife. Kala looks at him, blinking, and the receptionist stares as he puts the items into a plastic tub provided for them.

Kala exhales sharply but says nothing. The shaken receptionist guides them down a brightly-lit hall past several identical doors. She gestures at one, then leaves them. Kala exchanges a glance with Wolfgang before knocking.

“Come in,” answers Will.

Wolfgang braces at the prospect of being in a room with Kala, who knows about Will, and Will himself. He takes a steadying breath and goes into the office after Kala. Will doesn’t look up at first, finishing a note, his free hand around a mug of black coffee.

Will puts his pen aside and looks up, then visibly stiffens. He looks at Wolfgang, then at Kala, frozen.

“What’s going on?” he asks quietly.

“He agreed to come with me,” explains Kala.

“No,” says Will. “You both need to go.”

“She’s telling the truth,” says Wolfgang. “I want to do this.”

“Where was this attitude four years ago?” asks Will.

Wolfgang pulls a chair out from the desk and sits in it, leaning forward. “Be grateful that I agreed to this at all. You know you’re not going to get this chance again.”

“I only need her,” argues Will, gesturing at Kala.

“You want to tell your boss that I walked into your office, offering to give you everything, and you turned me down because you don’t trust me for personal reasons?”

Will looks at him for a moment with the specific, resentful expression he used to have whenever Wolfgang made a good point in an argument. He shakes his head slowly, then gives a humorless laugh.

“Of course it’s you,” he says. “Of course it is. You look like shit by the way.”

Wolfgang leans back. “I had too much to drink.”

“You always have too much to drink,” mumbles Will, shifting some paperwork and taking out a legal pad. He turns to Kala and adds, “Can I get you something for your face? Are you okay?”

“I’m used to it,” murmurs Kala, glancing down and adding, “he looks worse than I do.”

Will squints. “Your husband?”

She nods and Will’s gaze finds Wolfgang. He softens in realization, then looks down and nods.

He writes something on the legal pad and Wolfgang glances around his office. It reflects Will’s ordered style -- manuals and case files neatly organized on the shelf behind the desk; three pictures in matching frames -- the first of him and his parents on July 4th, the second of him and Diego, and the third of his CIA coworkers, all gathered in a break room for a quick photo. His diploma from the University of Chicago is hung neatly on the wall, balanced on the other side of the bookshelf by a framed award for outstanding service. There are several potted plants, a filing cabinet with a coffee machine on top, and on his desk, two paperweights shaped like eagles and a cup of black pens, offset by a small rainbow flag clipped to the side.

“Okay,” he says, finishing his note, adding, “Mrs. Kapoor, I hate to ask, but do you mind stepping outside for a moment?”

Kala nods and begins to get up, but Wolfgang puts a hand out to stop her.

“If you’re going to talk to me about the conflict of interest, she knows,” he says to Will.

Will hesitates. “What does she know?”

“That we dated,” says Wolfgang in a clipped tone.

Will looks apprehensively at Kala, who slowly sits back down and nods.

“I’m sorry but your behavior was rather obvious,” she says softly to him.

Will rubs his eyes, then gets up and refreshes his coffee. As he sits, he says, “There’s going to be superior officers involved in this. No one can know, which means you can’t act like an asshole for no reason.”

“You’re the problem, not me,” says Wolfgang. “I don’t look at you like a kicked puppy--”

“Yeah, that’s the assholish behavior I’m talking about.” Will takes a long drink of his coffee and sets the cup aside. “I’m assuming you want an immunity deal. I’m not sure we can get you a blanket one. You’re not Sergei, but they want you almost as much. It’s going to be tough to make an argument. You’ll have to give us everything we ask for.”

“I won't tell you anything unless I know I’m not going to prison,” says Wolfgang.

Will leans slightly forward. “Listen to me. You’re on everyone’s list. Germany’s, ours, some NGO’s, even Russia’s--”

“That’s to keep up appearances, you know the Kremlin relies on--”

“That’s not the point. I’m not saying you’re Osama bin Laden, but we’d love to get our hands on you.”

Wolfgang snorts. “I know you would.”

Will closes his eyes in exasperation.

“What’s the alternative plan, take me to Abu Ghraib and hope I tell you everything?” muses Wolfgang. “As much as I want US forces to dump my body in the ocean--”

“You don’t get to do this,” interrupts Will. “You’re going to be serious about this or you’re going to leave. Cut the sarcastic bullshit for once in your life.”

“If you arrest me, I won’t tell you anything,” says Wolfgang flatly. “Blanket immunity, for her as well.”

“I can’t guarantee that and you know what this process is like. As soon as you’re in the system, it’s hard to get out and it could be a while before every party agrees to an immunity deal,” says Will.

“Then come back to me when you know--”

“This is a contract, we can’t give you something without you giving us something,” insists Will. “I will fight for you, I don’t believe you deserve to go to prison, but blanket immunity? Wolfgang, c’mon.”

“I can give you my father, Sergei, Steiner,” argues Wolfgang. “I am not more valuable to you than they are.”

“I agree, but we can’t look at this as a whole. You’re a high-value target. They’re high-value targets. That’s just the reality. We can’t give blanket immunity to someone who is classified as high-value in exchange for someone else classified as high-value.”

Wolfgang feels a flicker of disgust and anger. “But it’s in exchange for three of them.”

“That’s not a guarantee,” says Will. “Your father could die before this gets resolved. Your uncle and cousin could gain asylum in Russia. The agency will consider this too risky, trust me.”

Wolfgang shakes his head and stands up. Kala hastily pulls him back down and leans forward.

“What if we worked with you privately? We could begin to give you information, you alone, while you work out an immunity deal for us?”

“As soon as I ask my boss what he thinks of an immunity deal for Wolfgang, he’ll know you came here, he’ll know you’re willing to work with us,” says Will with a soft shake of his head.

Kala sits back, disappointed, and there is a moment of hush except for the gentle click of Will’s clock and the woosh of feet in the hall outside. Wolfgang pulls a hand over his stubble, leaning back, gaze fixed on the framed photo of Will’s parents.

He knows he has no right to ask what he’s about to. He knows Will will agree out of pity alone, and he knows this is yet another abuse of the power dynamic that exists between them, but desperation drives him to ask.

“If you give me your word that you will tell me if the police are planning to arrest me, if you give me time to escape, I’ll tell you what you need to know without full immunity.”

He feels Kala glance at him in concern, but he keeps his gaze locked on Will.

Will folds his arms, his crisp white shirt gathering around his biceps, and he looks down for a long, charged moment. He nods slowly.

“Okay,” he says in a quiet, serious tone. He meets Wolfgang’s eyes. “But before you do that...think about what that life will be like for you, always on the run.”

“I’d rather run than live in a cage,” mumbles Wolfgang.

Will looks at him a moment longer, eyes soft and full of sorrow. He breathes out hard. “God, Wolfgang…”

“Those are my options,” says Wolfgang shortly.

Will shakes his head again, but he turns to Kala. He folds his hands on his desk.

“Alright, Mrs. Kapoor--”

“Please call me Kala, I hate my last name,” she says quickly.

Will nods. “Sure. Kala. Full immunity is simpler for you because you’ve never engaged in any criminal activity beyond conspiracy. You’re also a sympathetic figure considering the way your husband treats you. Call it paternalism, but the law’s almost always nicer to women in these situations.”

Kala nods.

“Let’s cover some basics,” Will goes on, picking up his notepad and a pen. “Full name, age, place of birth.”

Wolfgang gets up and pours some coffee into a cup with the CIA symbol on the side. Will pauses his conversation with Kala to gesture at him.

“Help yourself,” he mutters.

Wolfgang sits down without responding, leans back, and takes a drink. He watches Kala, sitting on the edge of her seat, hands clasped in her lap.

“My birth name is Kala Dandekar, I’m twenty-two, my birthday is August 8th, 1990,” she says, voice tinged with anxiety.

Will nods and continues to question her, jotting notes. Wolfgang lets the conversation fade and studies Kala as she plays with her wedding band. He notices her breathing accelerate and her speech falter. If his mother didn’t serve as a troubling reminder of how often duty defeats desire, he would question Kala’s behavior.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?” asks Kala.

“I asked how long you’ve been married to Kapoor,” says Will.

She nods, glancing down at her hands. “Four years.”

Wolfgang spontaneously covers her hands with one of his own, then turns his palm up; she meets his eyes quickly, unmoving, but she takes his hand in her own and squeezes it. She smiles gratefully at him and looks back at Will, who Wolfgang can tell is surprised by what just occurred and is trying hard to hide that.

“Okay, any children?”

“Oh, no, thank God,” says Kala.

Wolfgang ignores the conversation again, distracted by the feeling of Kala’s hands; he glances at their hands together, her slender tawny fingers around his own calloused ones, much bigger than hers. There is something distinctly delicate about her appearance which conceals her passion and ambition; something fragile that he wants to protect, despite her ferocity. She intrigues him like no one else has and he wants to unwrap her; he has an inexplicable need to know her better than he’s known anyone else.

His lips twitch in a tiny smile as he watches her, helpless to the image. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, but his interest goes beyond this, and this alone is unusual enough to unsettle him. She reminds him of --

He blinks, looking from her to Will. She reminds him of Will. Rather, his feelings for her remind him of his feelings for Will at the very beginning. The heady rush, the perplexing affection, the need to keep her safe. He recognizes immediately that these feelings are dangerous, likely unalterable.

He lifts his coffee to his mouth, worry building like lava, just as Kala squeezes his hand hard. The feeling startles him back to reality and the conversation reaches him again.

“Always through Berlin, yes, but he’s anxious to work with St. Petersburg now, which of course will get him killed if Wolfgang’s family was to find out--”

“You know?” interjects Will, looking at Wolfgang.

“They would kill her too, and she didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t want that to happen,” says Wolfgang quietly -- an understatement.

Will nods, glancing down and writing this. He returns to the topic of Kala’s marriage. Wolfgang drifts again, telling himself he confused his feelings for Will with his feelings for Kala because they’re in the same room together -- he tries to disregard the fact that his deepest feelings for Will have been gone for years.

_Wolfgang pushes the door open and glances around the small apartment, heavy with dread. The lights are low, but he makes out Will’s shape in the kitchen; as the door clicks shut, the lights come on, and Will crosses the apartment in an instant and puts his hands all over him._

_“What the fuck, are you okay? Wolfgang, I haven’t seen you in a week, is everything--”_

_Wolfgang nods dully. “It’s fine, I’m fine--”_

_“Why--”_

_“Just needed space,” admits Wolfgang._

_Will lets go of him instantly and steps back. “You needed space.”_

_Wolfgang rubs his face tiredly and nods again. “Yes.”_

_“From me, from--?” Will breathes out hard. “What’s going on?”_

_Wolfgang shakes his head, body stiff. Will watches him for a moment, hesitant, and then he looks down._

_“You’re afraid of this,” Will says quietly. “You’re scared and you can’t get past it and baby I get that but you can’t -- you can’t disappear. You have to talk to me--”_

_“Don’t patronize me,” snaps Wolfgang._

_“I’m not stupid,” says Will firmly. “You’re afraid of this because I’m a guy--”_

_“Fuck off.”_

_“Then what is it?” yells Will. “What?”_

_“You. It’s you. I don’t love you.”_

_A lie, such a large one that he’s sure his expression twitched. Will steps back again, throwing his hands down, and shakes his head hard._

_“What’s wrong with you,” he mumbles, no longer a question. “What the fuck is wrong with you.”_

_“Who could,” adds Wolfgang._

_“Get out, I’m done,” says Will, turning._

_Wolfgang touches his shoulder. “Will--”_

_Will turns and shoves him hard, an unintentional reflex. Wolfgang stumbles backward, hurt, and looks at Will with wide, betrayed eyes. Will’s eyes widen too, out of horror rather than fear, and he hurries back to Wolfgang._

_“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”_

_“Don’t touch me,” snarls Wolfgang, backing up._

_“Wolfgang, I didn’t--”_

_Wolfgang’s out of the door before he can hear the rest of the sentence._

Wolfgang drinks his coffee, chest flooded with regret, and he looks at Kala, then at Will -- two people he could not be less deserving of. He’s sure he hurts everyone he touches. He slowly pulls his hand away from Kala.

He didn’t see Will for a long time after that incident. He relied on casual sex and vodka. The moment he knocked on Will’s door, months later, he felt his muscles weaken; he fell into his arms and hugged him for a full five minutes; he tried to express the regret without speaking; he tried to communicate his desire for a second chance. But when they had sex later that night, the connection was gone. This realization was more painful than the separation itself -- the months they spent apart without reconciliation poisoned their relationship beyond repair, though neither of them said this aloud. Wolfgang is sure Will knows, as he does, that there is no future; but unlike him, Will’s feelings are unchanged; unlike him, Will has misguided hope.

He knows he should address this, but a small part of him keeps Will on reserve. A small part of him wonders if the feeling will reemerge, and he’s too selfish to set Will free.

He returns to the conversation.

“--above my pay grade, I have to talk to my superior officers, I’m sure they’ll meet with you right now,” Will is saying.

Kala nods, but Wolfgang frowns over a sip of coffee.

“I don’t want to meet with anyone today,” he says.

Will closes his notepad. “You’re meeting them today. Stay here.”

He gets to his feet, but before he can step away from his desk, the door swings open and reveals Felix, panting and flushed.

“Look, I think this is a bad fucking idea but I’m not letting Wolfie do this alone, so...where do I sign?”

“Felix--” begins Wolfgang.

“If you’re going down, I’m going down,” insists Felix, going into the office and shutting the door, adding, “Hey, Will.”

Will shakes his head gently. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I want a deal too, and I want to keep this dummkopf--” He bobbles Wolfgang’s head with his hand “--from saying too much damaging shit.”

Will looks at him for a moment. “You do realize him saying damaging shit is pretty much the point of this.”

Felix shakes his head, dragging an extra chair over from the side of the room. Wolfgang watches him, intrigued.

“No no, not shit about the investigation,” says Felix as he sits. “Shit about you that anyone with two fucking brain cells will see through.”

“You two are quite obvious together,” Kala says approvingly.

Wolfgang glances at her in annoyance, then at Will, whose gaze is serene and contemplative. He shrugs, glances down, and nods.

“I think they’re right,” he admits. “We could use someone to check our behavior. And considering the probable conspiracy charges Felix would face...we’d consider a deal.”

“Fuck yeah,” says Felix, throwing an arm around Wolfgang’s shoulders and shaking him. “This could be good, Wolfie -- still dumb as shit, your family’s going to find out and dump us alive into a concrete vat -- but that’s always how it was going to go.”

“Being an informant isn’t dumb, that’s the first good decision Wolfgang has made in years,” mumbles Will, adding, “being my informant is the part of this that is dumb. Everyone in this room knows about me and Wolfgang.”

“The only agent I want to work with is you,” Wolfgang says categorically.

Will folds his hands on his desk and patiently asks, “Why’s that?”

“I trust you,” Wolfgang replies without hesitation.

Will softens, but looks away with a shake of his head. “Okay, Wolfgang…”

“Mr. Bogdanow,” suggests Felix, and everyone turns to look at him. He flushes, but continues, “You know, for when you’re around the other officers and shit. Wolfgang’s too familiar.”

Will nods and makes a note of this. “True.” He looks at Wolfgang again. “You know the police will get involved, and if you want to work with me, you have to work with D--”

“I’m not working with Diego,” interrupts Wolfgang.

“Yes you are,” says Will as he gets to his feet. He shakes his head. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t punch you again.”

He leaves and the door shuts behind him. Kala looks at Wolfgang inquiringly.

“Who is Diego?” asks Kala.

“His best friend on the force,” replies Wolfgang.

“Who punched you because…?”

Felix snorts. “Does Wolfie seem like the kind of guy who would break up in a good way? Nah. He told Will he never loved him because no one could. Really fucking sweet."

Wolfgang shakes his head, irritated, and drinks his coffee. He never told Felix that he taunted Diego until he punched him; that he didn’t fight back because he felt he deserved a punishment for what he did to Will.

Kala glances at him apprehensively. “And -- and you’re confident that you, Will, and Diego will be able to control your tempers after all this?”

He nods without looking at her. She shifts back in her seat, hugging herself for comfort, and Wolfgang glances at her as her gaze finds the photographs on Will’s shelves.

“Is that Diego next to him in the middle photo?” she murmurs.

Wolfgang nods. “He got transferred because his wife got accepted to one of the universities here. Will came too after his father died.”

“And his mother?” asks Kala.

“She died when he was ten,” says Wolfgang.

Kala nods and remarks after a moment, “He seems very young for this position.”

“His father was important at the CIA, he got his appointment because of that,” explains Wolfgang. “He was close with the station chief here.”

Kala nods again. She appears anxious to ask more, but no more questions come. She presses her boots gently to the base of Will’s desk, bracing, playing with her fingers once again. Wolfgang wants to put an arm around her to reassure her, but he’s afraid the more he touches her, the less escapable wanting her will become. Already she occupies an important space in his mind -- last night made her another of only four people who have seen him in a vulnerable position. Despite barely knowing her, she is as significant as Felix, his mother, and Will. She unintentionally became a confidant.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asks, instead of soothing her with a touch.

She shakes her head. “I’m nervous enough already.”

“What are you going to tell Ajay when Will needs you to come here?” he asks her.

“I’ll tell him I’m shopping,” says Kala softly. “He’s always giving me money to shop.”

Wolfgang nods, then turns to Felix to gauge his expression. “You sure about this?”

“No, but you need me here,” says Felix, running his hand through his messy hair, carelessly flipping a pen up in the air and catching it.

The three of them are quiet for the next few moments. Wolfgang listens to the rush of the heat in the ducts above them, to the offbeat click of the pen in Felix’s hand on the side of the desk, to the creak of Kala’s chair as she tips back and forth.

After ten minutes, Will returns with a tall, slim man of about seventy who has short white hair and is wearing a tailored suit with an American flag pin on the lapel; two others follow, a man and a woman, both dressed in neat suits and carrying legal pads.

“This is Roger Jones,” says Will of the older man. “He’s in charge of the investigation into your family. And these are two of the agency’s lawyers. You’ll need to get a lawyer, too, as soon as possible so they can begin to work with our lawyers.”

Roger Jones looks over Wolfgang with cold curiosity, then smiles. “Finally, a face to the name. Nice to meet you, Mr. Bogdanow.”

Wolfgang looks at him expressionlessly.

“And Ajay Kapoor’s wife, interesting,” Jones goes on, adding to Felix, “And you must be Mr. Berner. The friend.”

“Agent Jones will supervise this, but he’s made me the lead investigator,” Will says to them, leaning to set some paperwork on his desk.

“We’ll discuss our guidelines on immunity with you now,” adds the female lawyer.

Will nods, pulling two seats out on the opposite side of the desk and patting the back of one.

“I’ll leave you to it, Roger and I are grabbing lunch,” says Will, taking his suit coat and briefcase off the rack near the door.

He leaves once again and Wolfgang stiffens in the presence of the lawyers, who have begun to pull manuals from their bags. The next hour passes slowly. Wolfgang drinks coffee until he’s sick. He watches Kala as she scribbles and jots frantic reminders about the complex contents of the paperwork. Felix leans back in his seat and groans repeatedly.

The lawyers finally pack their things mid-afternoon. They have just excused themselves when Will arrives again, carrying a take-out bag, jacket dusted with snow.

“I talked to Roger,” he says as he tugs the jacket off, knocking the door shut with his foot. “He said he needed to take a day. I’ll call you later, Wolfgang.”

Wolfgang nods dully, eyes glazed after an hour of legalese, and gets to his feet. Felix and Kala follow suit, all of them putting their coats on and beginning to gather their belongings. Wolfgang notices Will’s eyes on him as he adjusts the sleeves of his leather jacket and he lifts his eyes, cautious. Will is standing still, looking at him openly.

Wolfgang squints slightly, letting Kala and Felix depart the office before him. As he passes through the door, Will takes his arm and pulls him slightly closer.

“Come over for dinner tonight.”

Wolfgang creases his brow. “What?”

“Dinner,” says Will. “I want to talk to you about this, alone.”

“Fine,” says Wolfgang tiredly, tugging his arm out of Will’s grip and walking away.

He and Kala return to the manor, arriving separately and entering ten minutes apart to discourage any speculation.

The interior is strangely unfamiliar to Wolfgang after last night, the cluttered art and priceless collectibles laid bare, older and more laden with dust than he recalls; late afternoon shadows stretch endlessly in the poorly-lit entrance and weak sunlight streams into the den, illuminating Sergei’s painting of Faust’s descent. The air is stagnant as if the manor has gone many days without movement inside.

He listens to the murmur in the den -- Sergei and Ajay, from the sound of it -- and proceeds toward the den with caution. His uncle yelps at him as he passes the doorway.

“You are lucky I didn’t put you out on the street,” hisses Sergei.

Wolfgang glances at his uncle -- wearing a white and gold robe, sipping vermouth -- then with satisfaction at Ajay, whose face is purple and disfigured.

“He’s lucky I stopped,” returns Wolfgang coldly, continuing past them and up the stairs.

His body is drained from the drugs. His muscles ache and his head is still throbbing with nauseating intensity. He decides he’ll sit in the sauna downstairs until his headache is gone, but when he goes into his room to find a towel, he stops at a noise in the bathroom. He hears tiny paws hit the floor and a moment later, his cat trots up to him; he leans to pat it, listening to the persistent bustle in the bathroom, and then he steps cautiously to the door.

Kala is inside, taking bottles of pills off the shelves of the cabinets, painstakingly uncapping them and dumping the contents of each into the toilet. Wolfgang expects a flicker of annoyance or anger, but he smiles instead at this simple, hopeful action.

“Kala,” he says quietly, and she jumps, a bottle rattling out of her hands.

She’s wearing the same sweater, jeans, and jacket that she’s been in since yesterday; she hasn’t even taken her shoes off, which suggests she marched directly from the door to his room with this intention.

“Sorry,” he goes on, coming inside to help her pick up the scattered pills.

She holds an empty bottle to her heart, dark eyes flashing with apprehension, hair damp and wild from the snow they walked through to return to the manor.

“I -- I know this is inappropriate,” she whispers.

He shakes his head to show he doesn’t mind, then emphasizes this by pouring the pills he picked up into the toilet.

“No, I appreciate it,” he tells her.

She hasn’t moved -- body stiff, throat trembling slightly, delicate brows deeply knitted. He smiles gently at her and takes the empty bottle from her fingers, then uncaps a new bottle and hands it to her. She blinks, still cautious, but then she turns and dumps the pills.

“I know this must look silly,” she admits. “I -- I know I don’t know you, I know you barely understand why I helped you last night, and this must seem rather over-protective--”

“I would do the same thing,” he says reassuringly. “What did Ajay say to you?”

  
“He apologized,” Kala says in disgust, reaching for another bottle. “And called you an animal and told me to stay away from you…” She trails off with a cold laugh.

“Hypocrite,” mutters Wolfgang.

Kala shakes her head hard, lips pursed, and she throws several bottles into the trash can nearby. “Always the same,” she hisses, aggressively clearing the countertop of clutter and discarded bottles. “He hits me, and the next day, he says he never meant to, that he never will again, that he can’t control himself because he’s a man.” She breathes out of her nose. “Coward.” She flings open the third panel of the cabinet and begins to search for pill bottles. “I used to believe him.”

“That’s what men like Ajay are good at,” says Wolfgang. “You were only sixteen when you met him, right?”

She nods.

“You should put a bullet in him,” says Wolfgang quietly.

“Why would I give up my humanity to do that?” asks Kala softly after a moment. “I don’t deserve to lose more than I already have for him. And a bullet,” she goes on with a shaking voice, “a bullet is too good for a man like my husband.”

Wolfgang looks at her with new appreciation. She’s standing a foot away, one hand clenched on a jar of aspirin, the other gripping the edge of the trash can. Her eyes blaze and meet his unwaveringly. Unlike her, he has no more humanity to lose, and he nearly offers to kill Ajay for her here and now. But he reminds himself that Ajay is essential in luring the St. Petersburg boss to Berlin, and he shies from giving her any further indication that she is important to him.

Her behavior towards him has done nothing but suggest she appreciates, likes, and is attracted to him, and it would be simple to pull these strings and get her into bed; he can’t deny how attractive she is, and a few years ago, he might have been tempted. She is a good thing and good things come into his life too rarely. But now, standing in his bathroom with her while she frantically disposes of every available pill, he feels no urge to pursue something temporary. He wants to ensure her permanent safety and happiness.

This is an emotion he feels he should be well-acquainted with -- it’s all he wants for his mother, for Felix, for Will -- but this desire goes deeper with Kala. He feels inexplicably debilitated by the idea that she won’t escape and live a good life -- a good life with him. She has started to pull at him like an unconquerable tide.

“You’ll get out of here,” he murmurs.

She hugs herself and looks at her feet, rocking on them. She shuts her eyes and shakes her head gently. The urge to take her into his arms nearly overpowers him, but he settles for squeezing her elbow softly. She shakes her head harder.

“I’m -- I’m sorry,” she gasps out after a moment. “I know I’m a stranger, but I -- I can’t express how strange this week has been because of you. You’re the first man who hasn’t made me feel…” She relaxes her arms and gestures hopelessly. “Afraid. You haven’t made me feel afraid.” She looks at him with dull, tired eyes. “Ajay, his men, your uncle, your cousin...I’m terrified to be alone with any of them.”

He nods seriously. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she whispers, turning towards him, stopping herself before she puts her arms around him. “No. You’re a good man.”

He nods and takes her hands. “I’m sorry they make you feel afraid.”

She steps slightly closer. He glances down, breathing out, fighting a disconcerting urge to kiss her. He’s sure, though he has never been sure of something so abstract, that the universe will continue to push them together. He tries to tell himself that she’s new, unlike girls he’s met before, and that’s why he feels such a pull. He tries to tell himself that his feelings are simply protective. He tries to believe that she reminds him of himself, that his care for her is an expression of empathy and nothing further, but these explanations leave him empty.

“I won’t leave you here,” he tells her, the words unbidden, said out of instinct alone.

“I won’t leave you here either,” she whispers.

She leans an inch closer, eyes heavy, and her hands slide instinctively up his arms; he breathes in, his hands finding her waist, and they hold each other like this; her dark hair falls around her face as she glances down, as she shuts her eyes and smiles in heady relief.

He wants her to hug him the way she did last night, but after only a moment, she lets go.

“I should go.”

He nods and releases her. She walks out of the bathroom, past his bed, and out of sight with a swift, stiff gait. He leans briefly on the counter, then snaps the cabinets shut and goes into his room.

His headache hasn’t improved, so he unlaces his boots, discards his clothes, and gets in bed. He’s uncomfortably alert, unaltered by his daily dose of vodka, but too physically drained to search out liquor. He punches the pillows into a comfortable shape and closes his eyes, and a moment later, hears the bed creak on the other side of the wall. Kala is only inches away, yet unreachable.

He turns on his side, breathing out hard as the bed on the other side of the wall creaks again.

He listens to Kala’s musical voice.

“What are you doing here, hmm? You’re Wolfgang’s cat…”

He opens his eyes and glances at the wall as if looking at it will improve his hearing. His cat dislikes everyone on instinct, except him and occasionally Will.

“Hi,” Kala goes on happily. “Hi, you. You have pretty green eyes, yes…” Then she laughs indulgently and the bed creaks again. “You can’t sleep on top of me like that -- oh, ouch!”

Wolfgang hesitates, but then he smiles into the pillow and sleepily calls, “The cat bites.”

“I noticed!” she replies through the wall. “What is its name?”

“Doesn’t have one,” he admits.

“Creative,” she replies.

He chuckles, pulling the covers closer around him, sinking in the warmth. If he stretches his imagination, she’s here, curled against him; his face is in her fragrant hair and his fingers are tangled with hers. He knows, without knowing how, that she wants to be here too. He knows she would be if Ajay was gone.

He falls asleep to this thought, too exhausted to grapple with the consequences of it, and wakes up hours later to the crimson light of twilight. He braces himself on his elbow and blinks. His headache has reduced somewhat and his muscles aren’t as spent as they were earlier, but he wants to continue sleeping. Then he remembers.

 _Dinner_. He groans quietly and sits up, glancing at his watch. It’s nearly seven. He takes his phone hastily from the bedside table and sees two messages from Will.

Will, 17:26 -- _Is 8 okay?_

Will, 17:28 -- _And what do you want to eat?_

Wolfgang breathes out heavily and sits up. These texts remind him uncomfortably of texts he’d receive every night four years ago. His gears clench at the juxtaposition -- four years ago, these texts would have set his heart off. Now, he wishes he could ignore them.

Wolfgang, 18:54 p.m -- _I’ll try, I have to see my mother. Anything’s fine._

He locks his phone and tosses it aside, turning on his back and watching the ceiling for a moment. He listens in vain for noise in Kala’s room, and then he tosses his covers off and begins to get ready to leave the house. He finds himself deliberating between shirts as if he’s going on a date and he tosses one of the shirts hard onto his bed in annoyance. He dresses quickly after this.

He leaves after pulling on his leather jacket and stuffing a package of cigarettes into his pocket. He notes that Kala’s door is closed as he passes it, and notices Ajay’s voice still in the den. He relaxes slightly as he goes out to his car -- Kala is alone, and safe, for now. Still, he lingers after opening his car door, eyes drawn back to the mansion. He would be unsurprised to return and find that he beat her again or worse. He reminds himself that she has known Ajay for six years, that she knows the subtle tricks of avoiding true danger, but he struggles to get in the car.

He insists to himself that she is not his responsibility and finally drives to his parents’ house. The snow is dry and his wheels squeak as he turns onto their street, which is untouched and windswept. He parks farther away than he wants, concerned by the size of the upcoming drifts, and fights the snow as he walks to the porch and up the stairs.

The last warm light disappears beyond the skyline as he goes inside, avoiding knocking; he glances to his left at his father, half-asleep on the couch with a soccer match blaring, and his mother in a chair nearby, hugging her knees to her chest, listing like an off-balance boat.

“Mom,” Wolfgang mumbles as he approaches her.

She starts, gasping, and sits up. She breathes out, her hands latching instantly around his wrists, and she leans forward.

“Is everything alright?” checks Wolfgang.

She smiles weakly and nods, but her eyes go to Anton. Wolfgang glances over his shoulder at his father, who hacks feebly and readjusts on the couch. He looks back at his mother, whose face bears another bruise, but she smiles again and shrugs.

“Nothing worse than usual,” she says quietly, adding, “I got those Zimsterne for you. Do you want some?”

He doesn’t, but he nods, helping her to her feet. They both look at Anton as they move into the kitchen, but he makes no attempt to intercede, and Wolfgang relaxes by the time his mother has taken out a small paper bag of cookies.

He sets several on a plate while she opens the fridge.

“Hot cocoa?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

She puts a pan of milk on the stove and searches in the cabinet for cocoa powder. She finds it on a high shelf and directs Wolfgang to reach it for her, and then she stirs some into the milk with the last of the sugar from the jar on the counter.

“It was nice to get out today,” says Irina as the pot begins to bubble. “Even though it was so cold. Do you know when the snow is supposed to stop? It never used to snow like this. I think it’s from climate change, have you heard of that?”

Wolfgang glances down to hide a chuckle. “Uh, yeah, mom. I think I’ve heard of it.”

Irina turns, shy. “Was -- was that a silly question?”

“A little, yeah,” he admits.

She laughs and shakes her head at herself as she stirs. They both stiffen at a prolonged cough in the living room and the sounds of the springs on the couch.

“He’s worse,” says Irina quietly as she pours two mugs of hot cocoa.

Wolfgang nods, watching as his father lifts a bottle of vodka to his mouth. He grumbles and directs the remote at the television.

“This is what he does all day now,” says Irina, shifting the mugs to the table and sitting close to Wolfgang.

Wolfgang nods again, taking a sip of the frothy cocoa; he’s about to respond, but he smiles helplessly and gestures with the mug. “This reminds me of when I was a kid.”

She grins. “It was your favorite. I used to put in--”

“Cinnamon,” he interrupts softly.

She nods, hugging her own mug close, smiling as she sips it.

“Do you have some?” he asks.

She points at the same high shelf the cocoa was on and he gets up to get the tiny jar of red-brown spice. He shakes some onto his cocoa, and she thrusts her mug out so he does the same with hers. She grins and drinks more.

“We have to talk,” she says playfully as she sets her mug down.

He raises his eyebrows and leans back, wrapping his hand on his opposite bicep to soothe a sudden throb. “What about?”

Irina leans forward and rolls her eyes. “About Kala. Kala? Is that how you say it?”

“I think -- yeah, yes, with the...intonation, yeah.”

His eyes widen slightly at this near slip-up and he hastily drinks; he should know how his girlfriend’s name is pronounced.

“Pretty,” says Irina approvingly. “How did you meet?”

Wolfgang wishes Kala was here so he could glare at her for putting him in this position. He’s relieved the light is low and the subtleties of his expression will be lost on his mother.

“We met...at one of Sergei’s parties,” he settles for.

“And she’s married?” murmurs Irina.

Wolfgang is unsure of the depth of her disapproval. His mother sometimes draws odd moral lines; her own morality is a blend of misinterpreted scripture and vapid spiritualism, which results in inconsistencies. He expected her to be cold when he told her about Will, but she never was; on the other hand, he expected more warmth when he expressed his views that she has no duty to Anton simply because she married him. He’s never confident where her beliefs fall.

“Yes,” he replies, meeting her eyes over his cup.

“To who? She doesn’t look like most women who know Sergei.”

Wolfgang breathes out heavily. He assumes that his mother already suspects Kala is married to a fellow mobster.

“Ajay Kapoor,” he admits.

Irina nods slowly, starting to smile. She takes a quick drink and quips, “Do you mean to fall in love with people who you have to hide away?”

He nods and says seriously, “I live for drama.”

Irina snorts and laughs. “Oh, hush, you don’t.”

He shakes his head, glancing down. He rubs the back of his head, smiling gently at the thought of Kala, and looks again at his mother.

“No, I don’t,” he agrees. “It’s unintentional. I’m dumb.”

Irina nods, eyebrows raised, and he laughs and nudges her.

“The fuck? You’re my mother, reassure me.”

“You _are_ dumb,” she says with a dramatic sigh.

He laughs more and finishes his cocoa. Her expression softens into a smile and she nabs a Zimsterne off the plate in front of her.

“She’s very beautiful, I can see why you love her,” she says softly, adding, “And the way she looks at you? That’s how I want anyone who’s with you to look at you.”

He watches Irina for a moment, shoulders softening, folding his hands on the table. He raises his eyebrows slightly and asks out of curiosity, “How does she look at me?”

Irina smiles. “It’s very pure. I caught her before she noticed me last night. Her smile said everything, it’s like she was looking at...the sunrise.”

Wolfgang starts to laugh again. “Mom--”

“It was!” insists Irina. She meets his eyes and smiles wider. “I like Will, but you can have children with this one--”

Wolfgang shuts his eyes and holds up a hand. “Mom--”

“I’m just saying,” murmurs Irina, chewing on a cookie.

“We barely know each other,” admits Wolfgang.

Irina rolls her eyes. “You know each other well enough to be sleeping together.”

“I sleep with people I don’t know all the time,” says Wolfgang, adding with a frown, “you heard that as my friend, not as my mother.”

Irina covers her face, flushing, and shakes her head. “It’s too late, I heard it as your mother. You should really be more careful. Although...I remember being your age, I wish I could have dated different men.” She breathes out. “Well, no man would ever want me now, but when your father is gone…” She laughs at herself. “I know I’m too crazy, I know, but I’d like to try again. I look younger than I am. You know who I would go after?”

Wolfgang shakes his head in amusement, getting up to add more hot cocoa to his mug. “Who?”

“You know that handsome one in Star Wars?”

Wolfgang briefly closes his eyes, trying not to laugh. “Uh, which series?”

“The new one. You know who I mean. The one with dark hair, he’s a pilot or something.”

“Mm,” says Wolfgang, remembering; then his eyes widen, concerned what this sound of approval conveyed.

“Oh, I see you agree,” teases Irina.

Wolfgang rolls his eyes at her as he leans and pours the remaining cocoa into her mug. He joins her again at the table, sprinkling cinnamon in his mug and resting his head in his hand.

“Latin American men are very attractive--” Irina goes on and Wolfgang quietly groans.

“You needed to have a daughter to have this conversation,” he tells her.

“I wanted a daughter, but I got you,” says Irina, puffing her lips out playfully. “And don’t complain, at least you can relate. What’s your type?”

“No, we’re not talking about this,” says Wolfgang, drinking his cocoa, adding more solemnly, “It’s good you didn’t have a daughter, mama.”

Irina glances fearfully out of the kitchen at Anton and nods. “You’re right.”

Wolfgang touches her arm so she looks back at him, and continues in a light tone once more, “I don’t have a type. I’ve only been with Will, you know.”

“Oh, that isn’t true--”

“He’s the only one I was serious about,” amends Wolfgang with raised eyebrows.

Irina nods, smiling, and murmurs, “Tell me more about Kala.”

Wolfgang breathes in and looks down, studying the linoleum table for a moment. He shrugs. “She’s…” A gentle smile comes to him, unbidden. “She’s sweet.” He relaxes and shakes his head slightly, chest filling. “She trusts me, which I can’t understand, she’s brave and…” He catches himself, frightened how easily these words come to him. He glances up to gauge his mother’s expression and sees she convinced, so he lets the wave continue, despite being frightened of it. “She’s different. I don’t feel like I have to lie to her.”

Irina beams and nods. “Good. I know you say it hasn’t been long but she loves you.”

Wolfgang chuckles and picks up one of the cookies. “No.”

“She does,” insists Irina. “She told me last night.”

Wolfgang tenses, frowns, and returns the cookie to the plate “What? She said those words?”

Irina nods, puzzled and surprised. “Yes. You -- you haven’t said that to each other?”

Wolfgang shakes his head, so startled that he feels something shift physically, a pin falling into or out of place in a complex lock. He can find no rationale for Kala to say that, no necessity; she could have left her explanation simple -- _we’re together_ \-- but she went further.

Irina covers her mouth and leans back, swallowing a bite of cookie. “I’m so sorry! I thought you must have -- have said it already! Oh, did I spoil everything?”

Wolfgang shakes his head again, gaze fixed. It seems a dam broke last night; it seems, finally, that his life has a direction. He reaches and squeezes Irina’s shoulder gently.

“I’m going to get you both out of here,” he says solemnly. He finishes his drink, squeezes her shoulder once more, and hastily stands. “I have to go. Are you alright tonight?”

Irina nods. “Where are you--”

“Kala,” he lies. “I need to see her. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Irina smiles in understanding and nods again, pulling her hand down to squeeze his wrist. Her expression is a frail contradiction of joy and grief. Her strong brows come together and she shakes her head, pressing her thumb into his palm.

“If you can’t get me out of here,” she whispers, “at least get her out.”

Wolfgang shakes his head firmly, words echoing:  _This is what my life is for._

“I won’t leave you here,” he assures her.

Irina nods desperately, eyes now bright.

“I promise,” he adds, leaning to kiss her forehead quickly. “Tschüss, mama.”

He adjusts his jacket and hurries towards the door, inexplicably desperate to see Will and make admissions he owed him years ago. He pulls a stocking hat from his pocket as he jogs down the steps and shoves through the snow to his car. He lights a cigarette after sitting in the driver’s seat, then smacks the wheel as the car fails to start; it grumbles and the engine starts, and he presses his foot hard to the gas and slides on the ice as he turns towards an eastbound road.

He glances at his watch and sees it’s just after nine. Will used to give him a half hour before putting things away and going to bed, asleep in a position that clearly communicated _if you get in bed you’re going to get a lecture._ It’s past this time, but luckily now, he has no key and will wake Will up by knocking.

He breathes out heavily. He spent their year together throwing the first punch, disappearing without explanation, keeping Will hooked with just enough attention and nothing more. He’s kept him on reserve with no intention of investing another day in him, took advantage of his trust, put him at risk of losing his job with no self-awareness. He tries to tell himself that he isn’t apologizing so that he comes into Kala’s life without baggage; he tries to tell himself his motivations relate to Will and Will alone, but he knows that Kala is entwined in this.

He’d prefer if he had the clarity and morality to address this by itself; he wishes he didn’t require a dire impetus to change his behavior, but time and again he’s proven to himself that he does need this; he pushes limits instinctively, draws things out past natural or healthy conclusions; the only cure is a brush with disaster, or with the opposite.

He drives through the snow, swearing quietly each time he encounters ice, and reaches Will’s apartment after a grueling half hour. He gets out and slams his door in annoyance, then crosses the pavement at a jog.

He knocks gently, head close to the door. He knocks again after a moment and the door swings open, revealing a groggy, shirtless Will, with a toothbrush in his mouth.

Will blinks, removes the toothbrush, and frowns. “It’s late, I thought--”

“I know,” says Wolfgang sharply. “Can I come in?”

“You okay?” asks Will.

Wolfgang nods and Will steps further inside to let him in, shaking his head gently as he continues to brush his teeth.

“You’re late--”

“I know--”

Will turns with an understanding smile and removes the toothbrush again. “Stop, it’s fine, do you want dinner?”

“Did you make dinner?” asks Wolfgang.

Will nods. “Yeah, but you didn’t show, so I didn’t eat yet.”

“I know,” says Wolfgang quietly, squeezing his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s --”

“No, I’m sorry,” Wolfgang says firmly.

Will nods, then takes Wolfgang’s hand and takes him into the kitchen. Wolfgang exhales, glancing at their hands together, then at the back of Will’s head. He suspected that dinner meant _dinner_ but he didn’t expect Will to touch him so quickly.

In the kitchen, there is a large dish of manicotti, dotted with chopped basil, a salad, and an uncorked bottle of red wine.

“I know you want beer,” says Will before Wolfgang can complain, reaching into the fridge.

Wolfgang watches his shoulders move as he uncaps the beer, then turns and hands it to him. He smiles gently, gaze down, and nods in thanks before he takes a sip. Will smiles back, touching his side, and kisses him quickly before crossing the kitchen to the stove to plate the manicotti. Wolfgang stands still, blinking. Intimacy without communication, a desperate revival of feelings long-dead.

“How much do you want?” asks Will.

It could be four years ago, but it isn’t.

“Will--”

“Don’t,” mutters Will. “I know this is all--”

“I thought you wanted to talk to me about the investigation,” interrupts Wolfgang quietly.

Will turns, soft brows raised. “I do.”

Wolfgang shakes his head to signify he doesn’t want to pursue the conversation. He drinks his beer, relieved by the alcohol, and relaxes slightly. He has time tonight. He can tell Will what he wants as long as nothing happens.

“One’s fine,” says Wolfgang, and then he gives into a small temptation -- he steps behind Will, hugs him from the side, and nestles his temple. “Thanks.”

He isn’t sure if it’s muscle memory or self-sabotage, but it’s difficult not to fall into their old pattern.

Will smiles and turns. “Yeah, of course.”

Wolfgang nods and hugs him closer, face on the back of his head, eyes closed. He breathes out, relieved to spend a moment with Will that isn’t fractious. With a bit of alcohol and a bit of imagination, they never broke up.

Will heats two plates in the microwave, then adds salad. He pours himself wine, then nods at the couch, and he and Wolfgang sit close together on it.

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” says Wolfgang quietly.

“You’re not a bad person,” replies Will.

Wolfgang decides not to argue and takes a bite of manicotti. “This is good.”

Will smiles tightly, then breathes out. “I miss you.”

Wolfgang’s coded speech, followed by the translation. Wolfgang shakes his head gently, watching Will’s hands as they work his fork and knife. He breathes out, then sips his beer. He sets it aside and touches his forehead to Will’s temple, a familiar gesture, a response without words. He stays here, suddenly fragile, and Will slides his hand down his leg.

Wolfgang envisioned a concise admission of his wrongs. He anticipated a quick goodbye. Now, he wants to hold his ex-boyfriend until the storm quiets and the sun appears. He clenches his jaw and breathes in deeply, moving one arm around Will’s waist.

“I don’t know why you’re mean when you don’t need to be,” Will mumbles.

“To push you away,” admits Wolfgang.

“Because you’re scared?”

Wolfgang shakes his head slowly. “Not now. But you were right before. Will--”

Will shakes his head too and turns so his nose slides against Wolfgang’s. “I just wanted to see you, okay? I miss you and--”

It’s goodbye. The words are saturated with empty hope. Wolfgang breathes out, drawn closer despite reality, and they kiss slowly as heat builds; it would be easy to slip into an old routine; to put plates aside, to cast clothing over the back of the couch.

But Wolfgang shakes his head as pulls away. “We can’t do this anymore.”

Will glances down and sets his full plate aside, about to reply.

“We can’t,” repeats Wolfgang. “It’s not fair to you.”

Will laughs after a moment, hollow. “No shit.”

“I’m sorry,” mumbles Wolfgang, and then he finds an honest, clear tone. “Will, I’m sorry.”

“Is there someone else?” asks Will, reaching for his glass, thumbing along the rim of it as he meets Wolfgang’s eyes.

Kala appears in his mind like a river moving through a canyon. She is every color.

He inhales, holds the breath in his lungs, and tries to shake his head; but he looks down and smiles hard.

“She's good for you,” says Will; his voice is dull, but free of jealousy or resentment.

“I’m not here because there’s someone else,” says Wolfgang quietly. “I’m here because I wanted to say this to you in person. I--”

“I don’t want to hear you say you don’t love me anymore. I know that.”

Wolfgang nods. “Okay.” Then he shakes his head, gaze distant. “I’m sorry, you’ll find someone who--”

“Don’t. I know, it’s just that you…” Will breathes out. “You were it. It’s a lot to lose.”

Wolfgang shakes his head. “I wasn’t. If I was, I’d still be here.”

Will lifts his gaze, and after a moment, nods gently. “Yeah. But I haven’t found someone else.”

“You will,” mumbles Wolfgang.

“Okay,” says Will quietly. Then he nods harder. “Okay.”

Wolfgang holds him closer and puts a hand on the side of his face. He watches the journey from disbelief to acceptance, fast, as if he’s been here many times; this time, he hopes the acceptance sticks. For the first time, he’s aware of the contradictory truths that kept them distant -- _I love you but I don’t want to; I love you but I’m waiting for someone else; I love you but I don’t._ Kala doesn’t require these qualifications. The dam breaks again. The remaining water drains through as he and Will let go of each other, fingers sliding and separating.

For years, a kiss has broken the tension. For years, they’ve existed together in a lie. Tonight, the blood under the bandage flows; tonight, they gratefully recognize the end.

Will breathes out again, but he smiles.

“Go home,” he says gently.

Wolfgang nods, getting up, drawn by the image of Kala asleep with his cat. He looks at Will for a moment, the way he would look at the sun as it rapidly slips away, and he breathes out.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. “I know what you’re risking.”

Will briefly takes and releases his hand. “I know what you’re risking too.”

Wolfgang clenches his jaw hard as he turns away from Will. He walks with a blind gaze towards the door, steps instinctive. The chill of the snow startles him as he walks to his car and he pauses after he sticks the key in the ignition.

He leans on the headrest, eyes finding the black interior of the car. Then he drives to the manor, not because he wants to, not because it’s home. He drives there for her.


	6. Some things never sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kala and Will get closer, the investigation heats up, and Irina makes a fateful choice.

_The queen of peace_   
_Always does her best to please_   
_Is it any use?_   
_Somebody's gotta lose_

  
_One Month Later_  
The snow abates and turns to thick ice on the streets and sidewalks. Wolfgang watches the bruises fade and be replaced on Kala's face. They meet eyes in the hall as they pass each other; they hold hands while the Polizei and CIA operatives question them in small, grey rooms. He drinks less. He smokes more. The investigation wears on like a thread unraveling.

Kala occupies a larger space in his mind as time passes. She interrupts his thoughts. She walks through his daydreams and smiles, an invitation. He tries not to think about her, then thinks about her more. He's never met anyone with her drive or her bravery. His mother has endured as much as she has, and so has he, but Kala isn't as broken. She isn't lost. It surprises, confuses, and encourages him.

He fights unfamiliar urges to hug her, to put his hand through her hair.

Mornings repeat themselves. A quiet hello in the kitchen over coffee, Kala's excuse to go shopping, a hurried ride on the U-Bahn. They sit close and if she's tired she rests her head on his shoulder. He imagines she's his girlfriend; he imagines a place beyond Berlin; he hugs her from the side and she kisses his arm, smiling. He could exist in these moments for the rest of his life and this realization staggers him.

This morning, a cold February dawn with weak sunlight, Kala is particularly tired and so is he. He watches her reach for a second cup of tea. He watches her gently grip the counter and blink. He's grown accustomed to the cues; he makes a point to hold Kala closer after moments like these.

"Is there more sugar?" she asks, gesturing with the empty jar.

It's early. He senses she could collapse into him and stay there, crying. He nods and opens a cabinet for more sugar, then hands it over. She smiles in thanks and wipes her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"I'm used to it," she replies.

She says the same thing every time, and every time, he wants to reply _I'm still sorry, babe_. The urge to call her that, süße, love, is hard to resist; it has nearly slipped out. Despite being with Will for a year, he never found himself instinctively drawn to terms like these.

"It's the last day," he mentions. "Will said they have what they need."

Kala nods. "Good."

One word from a rambler. He touches her waist gently. There is an unspoken agreement between them that touches like these are acceptable; an unspoken understanding that touches like these express what words cannot.

"Do you want something to eat?" he asks.

She smiles. "Let's get bagels at that place on the way."

He smiles too. "Okay."

He wonders if conversations like this signify more. Ajay is in St. Petersburg after an early morning flight. Sergei is out, and Steiner is drunk in the living room. Besides the maids and cooks, they are alone. He could kiss her -- a disconcerting urge lately, provoked by a conversation about breakfast. He knows he's stuck, but he's not sure he cares. Kala is a constant, medicinal presence, better than any drink.

"I like the...what is it? Salmon?"

"Lox, yeah," he replies.

"Mm, that's right," she murmurs.

He chuckles. She checks her watch and hastens her pace; he mirrors her, taking his leather jacket from the hook on the door to the garage. They leave together, glancing over their shoulders, always unsure. Then they take hands and battle the ice. He holds her up when she slips. She squeezes his hand.

She's shopping. He's on a walk. They aren't together, they aren't holding each other. They aren't together, but they are.

"Do you want coffee too?" she murmurs. "They have good bagels but their coffee…"

"Yeah, it's shit," he agrees, nudging her towards the nearest cafe.

They order coffee, then buy breakfast, then walk the rest of the way to Will's office, where they meet Felix and their lawyers. Diego says a cursory hello to them and Will smiles as he opens the thick file of notes they've provided to him over a month.

They spend the day inside the stuffy office, answering already answered questions and providing more details about Sergei and Ajay's banking habits.

"Where are you at with Dolokhov?" murmurs Will at the end of the session.

Wolfgang shrugs. "He's coming to Berlin in a week like I said."

"And Lila?" checks Will.

"She knows," answers Wolfgang. "Her supply line isn't at risk."

Will raises an eyebrow lightly. "The last transition of Kings wasn't exactly quick, Wolfgang."

"This one will be," says Wolfgang.

Will shakes his head in defeat, then closes his notes. "Okay. D, you got anything else?"

Diego finishes a long drink of coffee. "You think the transition will be quick? You on drugs?"

Wolfgang smiles tightly. "When my uncle is gone, no one will move against Fuchs. He's too powerful."

"It's true," adds Felix.

"Yeah, mobsters don't tend to play it safe," retorts Diego. "A few reckless idiots will slow all this down."

"Then they slow it down," mutters Wolfgang tiredly, leaning back and finishing his coffee.

"What about Mumbai?" Diego goes on, glancing at Kala.

She sits up and inhales, waking herself up. Wolfgang watches her cautiously as she hugs herself, dark eyes flashing as she considers the two men.

"I'm sure Lila has already found alternatives, considering Ajay is under investigation," she replies.

Wolfgang nods in agreement. "She has."

She looks at him, soft, and swallows before continuing, "If other mobsters do slow things down, Lila will be very frustrated. Won't she hurt us?"

Wolfgang doesn't express that he's sure he'll be gone by the time Lila has this opportunity. Immunity deal or not, he wants to escape Berlin and become nameless and unidentifiable; he wants the same for his mother and for Kala. He knows time is now short, and he has no concrete plan beyond counterfeit passports and a vague vision of a coastal town. In the aftermath of the arrests and the confrontation with Dolokhov, he's sure he can convince Kala and his mother to leave with him, but the fast approach of this day is tying him in knots.

He is unfamiliar with beginnings; the moment he is free and safe, he fears he'll run again, unable to cope with a new, kinder reality -- unable to cope, specifically, with a real opportunity to be with Kala. Their time together has been mere solace in a storm, and he's sure her feelings -- if they can be called that -- are an expression of gratitude, a desperate grasp for safety. He suspects he's the first man she's trusted, but surely she wouldn't trust him per se. He's only good for her contextually and by comparison.

"I won't let her hurt us," he settles for.

Kala nods uncertainly, then covers her mouth to conceal a huge yawn. Will and Diego shift some paperwork, and Will gets to his feet and stretches. He glances at Wolfgang, then Kala.

"We're getting pretty close," he says hopefully, with a small smile.

"Delít' shkúru neubítogo medvédya," mumbles Wolfgang.

Will turns with an amused frown.

"You don't know how everything will work out," says Wolfgang.

"Was that the Russian equivalent of not counting your chicks before they hatch, or…?"

Wolfgang laughs. "It's like that. But it's about skinning bears before they're dead."

Will nods. "Yeah, that is...not as cute." He pulls his jacket from the back of his chair, glancing at Diego, then back at Wolfgang, Felix, and Kala. "Listen, we've made it a month without all killing each other, you guys want to come over for dinner?"

Diego and Wolfgang look at each other in dislike, and then Wolfgang glances at Will, annoyed. Will exhales and shakes his head.

"What's wrong with you two?" he asks.

"I think dinner sounds nice," Kala says in a small voice.

Will gestures at her. "Thank you."

Wolfgang rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, adjusting his jacket, and the others follow. He and Diego glance again at each other as if sizing one another up and Kala sighs.

"Men," she sighs to Will.

He chuckles. "I know."

Wolfgang turns, a flicker of irritation on his brow. "You're a man."

"Yeah, but you're one of _those_ men," says Will. "You know, the guys that get pissy and hold grudges unecessarily."

Wolfgang nods, eyes narrowed. "We all know you're a saint, Will--"

Kala takes Wolfgang's head in her hands and turns it so he's looking straight ahead. "Please don't start an argument. I'm too tired."

Wolfgang softens and continues to walk. "We going in your car?"

Diego sighs sharply. "What the fuck is this now? Sisterhood of the traveling police informants?"

"Yeah, my car," says Will, adding, "shut up, D."

Wolfgang looks sullenly at the officers they pass in the hall on their way to the parking lot, then watches Will as the five of them pass over the slick parking lot. His relationship, one on one, with Will has improved since his effort to make amends last month. However, after a long day of questioning in Diego's presence, he doesn't feel particularly fond of either of them and is itching for an argument. Kala ameliorates the situation somewhat, but not so much that he feels at ease.

Felix comes alongside him. "You're tense, man, you need to have a little faith." He pauses, considering, and adds, "Or you need to get some ass."

Wolfgang snorts and stretches his arms behind him. "Yeah, I haven't had sex in a month."

Felix looks at him, horrified. "What, why man?"

Wolfgang shakes his head and avoids the truth -- he's avoided sex out of an uncharacteristic urge to respect Kala's feelings. He's also avoided it because when he considers who he wants, he wants her, and he isn't ready for that reality.

He shrugs. "Haven't been in the mood to go out."

"Yeah, that's why God invented Tinder," replies Felix.

"Or prostitutes," suggests Diego as they reach the car. "Isn't that what mobsters like?"

Wolfgang scowls at him. "I'd rather stick my dick in a--"

"Alright," interrupts Will. "No one's sticking their dick anywhere and you two are in time out."

Wolfgang glances at him, slowly smirking, and opens his mouth to ask what else Will would do to him if he doesn't behave, but Kala eyes him dangerously. He exhales hard and sits with her and Felix in the back of Will's sedan. She keeps her gaze on him, cautious, and he softens and shakes his head.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I need a drink."

"You need to be nicer," she replies gently.

Will gets in the front with Diego and pulls out of the parking lot. Kala catches sight of a haggard, middle-aged man dragging a gleaming oxygen tank, hunched near the entrance of the CIA. She frowns slightly -- his features remind her strikingly of Sergei's -- but she turns her attention back to Wolfgang when he puts a furtive arm around her and softly thumbs over her side.

She sits slightly closer to him. She tells herself this is due to the chill of the weather. She relaxes, unsure why his brusque manner rarely extends to her, and smiles slightly as she looks out the window.

The sun is nearly down and the snow has softened; now, without the sun, it begins to refreeze and the wind picks up, carrying brown leaves and stirring ice crystals off roofs. The cold is uncomfortable to her very bones, but she has grown to love coming home to a warm room and a hot cup of tea; she loves the contrast and romance of winter, especially in a city this gorgeous. She's tried to interpret her time here as a vacation, and her time with Wolfgang as a grand love story. Sometimes her mind is forgiving; sometimes reason does not interrupt her imagination, though not often.

Will's apartment is nearby and the ride is short. He parks along the street and the five of them get out onto the icy curb. Kala looks curiously at the door to his apartment, holding her breath; she realizes with a touch of regret that seeing his apartment, where she assumes he and Wolfgang lived together, might provoke undisguisable jealousy.

She follows Will inside, the others behind her, and her eyes adjust to the light as Will flips the switch. She takes in the small apartment -- a bedroom, recessed from the living room, with one wall of shelves for clothes; a couch at the foot of the bed, facing a large television; a diminutive but warm kitchen, with lemons in a bowl on the counter. Everything is neat and well-lit and she feels instantly safe here. She wonders distantly if this played a role in Wolfgang falling for him, and decides it must have.

She swallows a surge of jealousy. Will opens his arms with a shy smile and glances at her.

"It's not much," he says, shedding his jacket and hanging it on the hook. "They don't exactly give us fancy accommodations."

"I like it," admits Kala, taking her coat off and hanging it too.

Wolfgang tosses his jacket on the chair near the door, and Will communicates with a single glance that he has only a second to pick it up before he gets yelled at.

"Alright, mom" Wolfgang grumbles.

Will shuts his eyes briefly. "Could you act like an adult for once?"

"Lovely painting," says Kala to break the tension, stepping further into the apartment as Diego and Felix come through the entryway.

Will softens, turning away from Wolfgang, and nods. "Thanks."

He toes off his shoes and stacks them in a caddy by the door, then continues across the apartment to the kitchen, where he glances into the fridge.

"Oh shit, wait, I'm out of canned tomatoes..."

"Damn it, Gorski, always," says Diego, shaking his head as he takes off his coat. "You can't invite people over for dinner when you know you don't have food."

Will glances at Wolfgang. "Hey ba--" He stops abruptly. "Wolfgang, will you go to the store?"

"Smooth," mutters Wolfgang, adding, "No, since you can't bribe me the way you used to."

Will shuts the fridge door with a snap and a humorless smile. "Yeah, a blowjob's out, but I'm the only one keeping your immunity deal intact. Go to the store."

Kala hugs herself and moves closer to the kitchen, eyes wide and downcast. She feels a strange urge to apologize for Wolfgang's behavior, but she keeps quiet, reluctant to alienate herself from Wolfgang by judging him. Wolfgang moves across the apartment to the kitchen and leans on the counter with a willful smirk.

"You know I was going to go," he says quietly to Will. He raises his eyebrows at him. "What do you need?"

Will shakes his head, takes a sheet of paper out of a drawer nearby and reaches for a pen.

"Why did I date you," he mumbles, beginning to write.

Wolfgang glances down and a slow grin starts. Will, without looking up, says, "Don't say whatever filthy thing that just came to you."

"Boring."

"Asshole," sighs Will, shoving the paper into his hand.

"You two need to fuck it out or fuck off," remarks Felix, sitting on the couch and looking for the remote.

Diego points at him. "Do not encourage that behavior."

Felix shrugs and flicks to a soccer game. Diego rolls his eyes and sits on the other end of the couch. Kala stands in place, wringing her wrist with frantic fingertips, hair frizzing slightly from the discomfort of the moment.

Will breathes out. "Make sure you get the tomatoes with--"

"The silver lid, yeah, I remember," says Wolfgang, warmer.

Kala looks at them for a moment, studying the energy between them; Will is looking at Wolfgang with a mixture of grief and hope, the emotions battling for dominance.

She swallows and says pleasantly, "What are you making, Will?"

He glances at her. "Uh, pasta, you could help if you like to cook."

Kala brightens and nods. "I do."

He smiles and nods too, then reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He looks at Wolfgang, who shakes his head.

"I've got it," Wolfgang says quietly.

He lingers slightly too long, taking up the time that formerly would have been spent on a kiss goodbye, then abruptly turns and goes out the door. It shuts with a loud click, and Diego slowly shakes his head.

"Don't," says Will tiredly.

"I wasn't going to say anything," mutters Diego.

Will tries to smile at Kala. "Sorry."

She shakes her head. "It isn't you, obviously he's...difficult."

Diego, despite his gaze being on the television, gestures at Kala. "She gets it."

Will holds up his hands. "Okay. We're done now." He reaches for his phone and slides it onto the counter, then looks at Kala. "Classical okay?"

"Music? Oh, yes, fine," she says, nodding too hard to be polite.

He starts a playlist, and Diego and Felix turn up the volume on the TV. Will opens two beers and brings them both one while Kala waits in the kitchen, quickly studying her surroundings -- stainless steel tubs of rice, pasta, and seasonings, all neatly arranged; a CIA calendar on the fridge, held up by two featureless magnets; cups hanging from mug hooks under the cabinets, all white; somehow, however, the kitchen feels warm, homelike.

Will returns from the living room and opens a cabinet to show Kala a variety of wines on a rack. "Want a glass? Or a beer, whatever you--"

"Wine, that's fine, do you have anything white?"

He nods and takes out a bottle, then pours two glasses and slides one to her. She smiles in thanks and takes and sip, then tilts her head.

"You like wine?" she asks in surprise.

"Not usually," he says, taking some vegetable bags from the fridge. "But yeah, on nights this cold. This winter's been shit."

She hums in solidarity and leans on the counter. "Think about how I must feel. I never even saw snow before coming here. I'm always freezing."

He nods, chuckling, and she relaxes. He shifts a cutting board in front of her and offers her a chef's knife, then nudges a bag of zucchini over. She takes one out of the bag and scrutinizes it, frowning.

"I've never used this," she murmurs. "Is it like a cucumber?"

"Uh, no, it's a squash," he says with a tiny smile.

"Oh," she replies. "That's an odd shape for a squash. Slices?"

He nods and she picks up the knife, gently smiling, and sips her wine. "I'm sorry, I do know how to cook." She shrugs as she begins to slice. "In fact, my father was a chef, and he taught me quite a lot." She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and swallows hard. "That's nice you like to cook," she goes on. "Most men don't." Then she smiles to herself. "I imagine you did all the cooking when you and--" She stops.

"When Wolfgang and I were together? It's okay, you can ask me about him. Though he was the world's worst boyfriend."

Kala pauses slicing for a moment, inhaling, and takes a large sip of wine. She's not sure if she wants to know the extent of Wolfgang's bad behavior, but she's too curious, and too jealous, not to pursue this conversation.

"How did you two meet?" she asks quietly, tipping back more wine and glancing over her shoulder to watch him smash some garlic.

He smiles and shakes his head. "It was pretty romantic actually. I was taking a jog in a park and I slipped on the ice, and he was there, and he pulled me up."

"And asked you out?" asks Kala, surprised.

"No, he helped me walk to my car, I was pretty banged up," says Will. "And I asked him out. Invited him over for dinner the next day."

"Did you know who he was?" asks Kala, resuming the slicing.

Will snorts. "Yeah, of course."

Kala smiles gently and transfers the zucchini slices to a bowl nearby. "Did he know you knew?"

"No, I hid that for a while," admits Will, adding after a reflective pause, "He knew who I was right away, there was no hiding something that big from him. Not that I told him. He just picked up on it."

"Did he think you were tricking him?" murmurs Kala.

Will shrugs. "Maybe at first. We didn't tell each other anything about work until we trusted each other enough."

Kala smiles. "So, that's all it took? Dinner?"

Will hesitates, then laughs and says, "And, uh, breakfast."

"Oh my God," laughs Kala, turning with the bowl of zucchini.

Will gestures at a pan with olive oil in it and she adds the contents of the bowl to it. He passes her a package of basil and refreshes her wine when she extends her glass.

"I know it was a dumb risk to get involved with him," he says, leaning on the counter to face her, drinking his wine. He shrugs, glances down, and laughs at himself. He pulls his hand over his stubble and gives a slight shake of his head. "But, uh, he was pretty good in bed."

Kala flushes a deep cherry color and needily sips her wine. "Ah, hm."

"Then I fell in love with him like some kind of idiot," Will adds.

"Despite him being …" Kala decides to repeat Will's words to show friendship. "...the world's worst boyfriend?"

Will nods slowly. "It was hard to get him to talk, and he'd disappear for days. I don't think he cheated on me but I'm not positive." He shrugs with a bittersweet smile. "I could have gotten past all of that, but he can be mean when he wants to distance himself. He can be... " Will raises his brows, remembering. "He can be nasty. I don't know if you've seen him mad--"

"Oh," murmurs Kala seriously. "Yes." Then she frowns. "But not towards me."

Will lets out a tiny, humorless laugh. "Yeah, lucky you. The fights were pretty bad." Will shakes his head again. "He opened up as much as he could, he trusted me which seemed impossible given what he's like. And last month he...well, he finally did the right thing. He's better than he used to be...when he isn't hungry and tired."

Kala shifts her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. She glances at the door to see they're still alone, then admits quietly, "I think you're too kind to him."

"See, she knows," calls Diego. "Women know. Listen to her."

Will looks unsurely at Diego, then at Kala, who smiles sadly at him. He nods slowly, then reaches to squeeze Kala's arm in thanks. She smiles more widely, then gestures with the package of basil. He nods, so she turns and empties it on the counter, then begins to chop it. She listens to Will gather more ingredients behind her; she listens to the whir of the snow outside and the mumble of the soccer game.

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. "Do you think he would be different with a woman?"

She hears the pause of a knife, the background simmer of the sauce. "Um. Yeah, actually. I think part of the reason he was distant was because his family…I...I don't know how much you know."

"Everything," says Kala with a soft bitterness.

"Okay," mumbles Will. "Then you know why he might be distant with a guy." Then he turns, eyes inquiring, and says quietly, "Do you -- do you like him?"

Kala shakes her head rapidly and drinks her wine. "Um, no, no of course not."

She continues chopping basil, and is about to speak again to defend her question, but the door opens and Wolfgang comes in with a bag of groceries, leather jacket dotted with precipitation. He moves his fingers through his hair to rid it of snow -- Kala presses gently against the counter to steady herself -- then sheds his jacket on the hook and takes off his boots. He glances absently at the television as he passes it, then sets the bag of groceries on the counter.

"Thanks," says Will.

Wolfgang nods, then glances at Kala. "Smells good."

She smiles, fingers trembling. "It's from the basil."

He nods without knowing what this means, then touches her waist and walks away. She swallows, then sees that Will caught this exchange.

"Of course not," he says with a small smile. "Right."

Kala flushes. "I can start a pot of water, if that helps."

He nods and opens a low cabinet to hand her a pot. They cook together for a few more minutes while Wolfgang joins Diego and Felix on the couch. Diego glances at him warily, but after a while, laughs at one of his remarks about the match and they both relax slightly.

Kala is sure, unlike the wounds the Bogdanows have inflicted on each other, that the animosity between these men is superficial. She wishes they could interact more pleasantly, especially Wolfgang, but she supposes that is difficult for most men.

She and Will finish cooking, talking little now that Wolfgang is back, and they plate up big servings. Wolfgang comes into the kitchen and begins to search cabinets without a word.

"Vodka's above the stove," says Will listlessly.

Kala looks in concern at Wolfgang as he pulls the bottle down. He avoids her gaze and pours himself a large glass.

"I don't drink as much now," he mutters at them.

"Yeah, that's just...I don't know, Wolfgang, six shots," observes Will.

"I didn't say I don't drink at all," retorts Wolfgang, adding more quietly, "My mother kept me up all night, she kept calling. I'm sorry, I know I'm being an ass."

"Why was she calling?" asks Will.

Wolfgang shakes his head. "Apparently my father has been telling her…" He gestures vaguely. "That something is wrong. That I'm lying to him. But she's too paranoid to take seriously."

Will frowns and exchanges a quick glance with Kala.

"Don't," says Wolfgang tiredly. "It's nothing. Can we eat?"

Will nods and begins to take the plates to the table in the living room, but Kala waits, stepping closer to Wolfgang with warm, worried eyes.

"You don't have to stay, you can go home and sleep--"

He interrupts with a soft shake of his head. "I'm okay."

"You always say that," she replies quietly.

He glances down and shakes his head again, then rubs her arms and ends with a gentle squeeze. She stops breathing and watches him longingly as he takes his drink off the counter and joins the other men in the living room.

Will lifts up his beer after he sits down. "Look, I wanted you guys to come over because I have some good news."

"You're pregnant?" jokes Wolfgang. "Finally. I told you all that trying would work eventually."

Will glances down and laughs in earnest. "Uh, no. No, better than that -- I cracked my boss about your deal. You'll get full immunity."

Wolfgang stops moving and looks directly at Will. Kala grips her glass of wine and looks at the two men with wide, electrified eyes.

Felix says, "Fuck! Really?"

"Are you serious?" whispers Wolfgang.

"Let me finish," says Will patiently. "It's conditional. If your testimony allows us to successfully prosecute all three men in your family, then you'll get full immunity. If for any reason one of them dies, escapes, you get the gist, then you won't get that blanket deal. But this is good news."

Wolfgang stares and a long moment passes before he quietly replies, "Thank you."

Will nods and smiles slightly, and everyone clicks their glasses or bottles on his before taking a drink. Felix chuckles victoriously and shakes Wolfgang's shoulders.

"Shit, man!" he says, adding to Will, "man, thank you, you don't owe him shit and you still did this."

Kala wets her lips and sits forward in her seat. "This is incredible," she whispers. "How on earth did you get your boss to agree?"

"I just kept pushing it," says Will with a shrug. "I kept insisting that we would get all three of them in exchange for Wolfgang. I think I finally wore him down." He smiles. "Didn't hurt that D's boss made a few phone calls."

Wolfgang looks in surprise at Diego.

"Yeah, I helped you out," Diego admits. "Anything to make Gorski happy. My wife thought I was insane, by the way, thanks for the marital strife."

Wolfgang nods. "You're welcome." Then he takes a sip of his drink and finds it in himself to continue. "She doing okay? Isn't she due this month?"

Diego raises his eyebrows, taken aback, and he swirls his fork in his pasta to buy time. "Didn't think you of all people remember shit like that. Thanks, yeah, she's great."

"Boy or girl?" asks Wolfgang as he breaks a piece of bread off the table.

"Little girl," says Diego with a smile. "Finally, two boys was fucking enough."

Will snorts. Kala smiles and begins to eat, surprised by the change in tone, proud of Wolfgang. She adds extra cheese to her pasta and pours an extra glass of wine, relaxing. Despite the combative tone these men usually have, she's grown accustomed to their presence, and without it, she feels lonely. Tonight, with everyone now in good spirits, they remind her of home -- they may be a withdrawn mobster, a foul-mouthed locksmith, a long-suffering cop, and an overly-generous CIA agent, but compared to Ajay and the other Bogdanows, they're her sanctuary. Especially Wolfgang, especially when he's kind.

"Still arguing with Katia about names?" asks Will as he adds some salad to his plate.

Diego chuckles. "Yeah. And the boys have lots to say. You know what Javier wants to name the kid? Shuri, you know, from Black Panther. But Juan ain't having that. No, he wants us to name her Diana. I think we're hitting the superhero movies a bit too hard."

"How else would you name a kid?" asks Felix as he stuffs some pasta into his mouth. "Movies are the way to go."

"If you have a kid, you can't name it Conan," replies Wolfgang.

"Why?" asks Felix indignantly.

"Ugly name," say Will and Wolfgang together.

Will laughs. "Trust us, we're the experts on aesthetics in this room."

"Are you pulling the gay card about baby names?" laughs Diego.

"When you end up with a name like Wolfgang, you think carefully about this," says Wolfgang after taking a drink.

"I like that name," says Kala fondly.

"Wolfgang?" Felix asks incredulously. "Nah. I can't even say that out loud. It's like I'm talking to some old German king. Did we have kings? We didn't, did we? Anyway, too stuffy."

"No, it's nice," argues Kala. "I don't mind that's it's traditional. And besides, it's better than…"

"Wenceslaus," suggests Will. "That was my grandfather's name."

Kala wrinkles her nose. "That is a mouthful."

"He was born near Christmas, his mother thought it was cute," says Will with a laugh as he finishes his beer.

"Katia has her heart set on Julieta, you know, gotta fit that J theme," says Diego.

"Oh, that's gorgeous though!" says Kala, reaching to refill her wine.

She's had slightly more than usual, but tonight is a celebration, so she doesn't hesitate when she pours. Will reaches a glass out for her to fill.

"This is very good pasta by the way," she tells him as she sets the bottle down.

"Yeah, as usual," agrees Diego. "You should, like, quit the CIA and open a restaurant, Gorski."

Will smiles. "I like my job too much."

"Well, your future husband will appreciate it," murmurs Kala, adding as she elbows Wolfgang, "although I hope he shares the cooking responsibilities."

"Were you two gossiping about me?" asks Wolfgang as he works a bite of pasta onto his fork.

"Yeah, she knows all the embarrassing stories now," says Will. "Like the time you got locked in the bathroom when I was at work, and you broke out and fractured your collarbone because you had to have a Rambo moment instead of just waiting."

Kala laughs. "No, he didn't tell me a thing."

"You're the one who went to your grandmother's birthday party with a visible hickey and got yelled at…" murmurs Wolfgang.

"Which was whose fault?" laughs Will.

"Should have worn a turtleneck," replies Wolfgang.

"It was August," says Will.

"No no," says Diego. "I'm the one with the embarrassing Will stories, okay? Because I knew this dummy," he pauses to grips Will's head and shake it, "since we were thirteen. My personal favorite? He was fourteen, he stole his dad's beer. Thing is, his dad was crafty, so it was non-alcoholic. He just wanted to know if his son would steal it, you know? So there's Gorski, cold sober, belting out _Mamma Mia_ on fucking Solidarity Drive. Because he _thought_ he was drunk."

Will groans and laughs quietly into his hand. "Fuck, D, why didn't you tell me it wasn't real beer?"

"It was too funny," says Diego unapologetically.

"That's actually fascinating," says Kala. "The placebo effect can be truly powerful."

"What's that?" asks Felix.

"When you replace a drug with something like sugar, something harmless, but the person it's administered to doesn't know," explains Kala. "Sometimes the psychology works without the drug itself."

" _Mamma Mia_?" murmurs Wolfgang. "And you didn't realize you were gay until you were seventeen?"

Diego snorts. "Look, we all knew after he spent his sixteenth birthday money on an Ina Garten cookbook and a poster of--"

Wolfgang lets out a laugh. "A poster of Judy Garland."

Diego laughs. "That's right."

"Okay," says Will, hands up. "Let's talk about Wolfgang having sex with a girl in the locker room at school...and the principal, school board, and donors walking in on that during a tour."

"That's how I got expelled," says Wolfgang, nodding.

"Was this the girl who got your name tattooed under one of her tits?" asks Felix.

"Oh," sighs Kala, drinking her wine.

"We weren't dating," Wolfgang says indignantly. "I didn't ask her to do that."

"Not according to her," says Felix and everyone laughs.

Kala refills her wine again, giddy despite the inappropriate topic, and Wolfgang ventures into the kitchen for more beer, which he distributes. Will gets up to change playlists to 80's acoustic, then brings a container of cookies and a bottle of good scotch to the table.

"Nice," says Diego approvingly, pouring some for everyone.

Kala accepts her glass cautiously, but takes a sip with the men and giggles, nose wrinkling. Wolfgang passes her a cookie and she resists an exuberant urge to kiss the side of his mouth. The five of them chuckle at nothing as they eat cookies from the tin, and then Kala, recognizing a familiar song on the playlist, gasps happily.

"My mom played this constantly," remarks Wolfgang.

"My sister did," murmurs Kala.

Then she gets up, unthinking, and takes both of his hands to pull him to his feet. He frowns, hesitant, but she smiles warmly.

"Just dance with me," she says quietly.

_Anyplace is better_   
_Starting from zero got nothing to lose_

The music pushes them towards each other. Kala smiles again, her hands finding Wolfgang's shoulders, and she shivers slightly as he pulls her close. She could stay here, soft and small against him, sure of his feelings and her own, for the remaining time God gave her.

_You've got a fast car_   
_I've got a plan to get us outta here_

"Your sister liked this song?" he asks.

She nods, jaw instinctively tight. "She didn't like Mumbai, she thought... she would meet a boy who would take her far away…" She nods slowly, for a long time. "She deserved that. She deserved more than...than what she got."

"Don't think about that tonight," says Wolfgang gently, and for a moment, whether due to alcohol or true affection, he hugs her tightly and they stop dancing.

She clings; he breathes in the scent of her hair; they exist suspended, their bodies tight, reluctant to soften as if giving into each other is irreversible, as if mutual vulnerability is an oath.

_We've gotta make a decision_   
_Leave tonight or live and die this way_

Kala knows, and Wolfgang's touch tells her that he does too, that there is no escaping this. _This_ , a nameless relationship and existence, _this_ , something deeper than any attachment, any intimacy she has experienced. A month has passed like a decade. Every word he spoke to her was a hundred. Every touch was a night together.

The words are there. Seven letters, three syllables, but a question mark exists on the end. _I love you?_ Her feelings are not uncertain, but her timing is. She's sure it's impossible to fall in love so quickly. Despite that, she would follow him anywhere; she would go to bed with him tonight if she could find the courage.

She wonders as she tucks her nose into his chest if love itself is simple; if it is only complicated due to context, due to duty. If she was free and alone, despite her natural reserve, she's sure she would stretch and kiss him; she's sure his lips would taste like home, that his hands would find her body in a way a man's hands never had before, that they would make love like the sunrise may not come; they would give themselves to each other with a selflessness no one else had ever known -- at least, she thinks, she would. For the first time, she's met a man she would unhesitatingly give everything to, yet feel no sacrifice in doing so.

He holds her closer. The clock ticks, the music plays. Snow builds outside and she feels him relax. Will, Diego, and Felix's gentle background murmur fades. She's surprised Wolfgang agreed to dance; she's surprised how gentle the touch of a criminal and an assassin can be; yet she isn't, because from the moment she saw him in the hall, she sensed an unparalleled warmth.

"We used to sing this," she whispers. "Me and Daya."

"Daya," he repeats, adding, "what were their names?"

"My mother was named Priya, and my father was Sanyam," she tells him; after a pause she goes on in a high voice, "Wolfgang, I know you cannot understand, but I loved my family so much."

"Maybe I can understand," he replies, and as he holds her closer, she envisions a family they could have together, new lives.

"Everything was taken from me," she goes on. "Everything. I had to…" She stops, tears close. "I had to find who I was without them, and they were my life."

"I'm sorry," he says, a steady hand on her back.

"I told myself I must have done something to deserve what happened, but…" _But if they hadn't died, I wouldn't have met you._ It seems an unfair exchange, despite the depth of her feelings for him. "Some days I think everything that happens to us is meant to. Other days I…"

"Some things happen for a reason," he replies quietly. "Not everything."

She lifts her head up and looks into his mineral blue eyes. She shakes her head gently.

"How do I tell what has a reason?" she asks.

He smiles. "I don't know, babe."

_Babe_ , a quiet indication; she suspects he is attracted to her and has been since they met, but tonight _babe_ is not an indication of want as much as it is one of understanding.

The words are there, hanging like fruit. She wants to grasp each one. _I love you. I_ do, _me. This woman. I love you. You, that man, despite the warning signs._

"Well, maybe I do know," she says gently. "Because...if a feeling has a reason, well, it's heavier; it is harder to get rid of." She breathes out slowly and the wine lets her next words escape. "You are hard to get rid of."

"Do you want to get rid of me?" he asks without judgment.

"No," she says at once.

He nods, and then he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to her temple, and she softens like sugar over heat, nearly stumbling. For a moment, the wine provides an alternate narrative; for a moment, she is his and always has been, and they are dancing like an old couple, repeating steps they have taken for years. For a moment, the places their feet find on the dark wood are worn; they have danced this pattern since they were first together, and they will dance it until their knees and ankles give out.

She wants to challenge their existing realities by kissing him with passion she has never felt before and he has never experienced. But the weight of reality is heavy, too heavy, and after a soft brush of their noses, he guides her to the couch.

The others join them. Will rests his head tiredly, instinctively, on Wolfgang's shoulder. Kala does the same, and soon Diego leaves to return to his wife and children. Only Felix remains alert, and he watches as Kala snuggles gently into Wolfgang, a leg half over his lap, her arm unabashedly tight around his middle.

Wolfgang glances at Felix, close to a smile.

"You dating both of them?" asks Felix. "You know, CIA guy, woman married to another mobster, good choices."

Wolfgang looks at him less pleasantly and Felix backs off, returning with a bomber of Hefeweizen. He sits next to Wolfgang and uncaps his bottle.

"For the record," Felix says after he takes a drink, "I like her. A lot. She's fucking good for you."

Wolfgang doesn't speak for a moment. Kala moves in her sleep and smiles. Then he nods.

"Yeah," he says, voice rough with exhaustion. "She is, she--"

His words are cut off as the door shudders. He and Felix stiffen, and Will sits up with the vigilance and panic of a soldier. There is the sound of a gunshot, the lock now disabled, and Anton pushes the door open. He isn't dressed for winter and his skin is sweaty, sticky, and tinged a sickly grey; at first he appears disoriented, but then he laughs -- it echoes, loud, perverse, and slow.

Wolfgang is on his feet before he realizes it. His hand is on his gun, and Will mirrors him. Both of them stand guard as Anton shuffles forward, wheezing.

"I knew," he huffs, his oxygen tank scuttling over the floor as he tugs him. He points at Wolfgang with a trembling finger. "I knew you were betraying us. Your family!" He spits. "I watched, I saw you go to his office."

After a night like this one, Anton's presence is unexpected. Anton's eyes find Will and Wolfgang stiffens, but then his eyes find Kala, and Wolfgang lunges. He is a mess of snarls and shoves as he moves his father back to the door, but Anton raises his gun; suddenly, Will, Felix, and Kala have pulled Wolfgang back and stepped protectively in front of him. He pushes them away.

It would be easy, a twitch of his finger, a moment where his biology fails him and his father is a stranger; but Wolfgang does not shoot, and neither does Will. It seems to Wolfgang the task belongs to another, or to God, because he's never found himself frozen in a moment like this.

Anton laughs and spits again, then disappears back into the night. Wolfgang realizes with icy fear that his father has one mission -- tell Sergei of the betrayal, and by extension Ajay. He realizes with a similar chill that tonight is the end, and if not that, the beginning of it. Tonight his father must die, or he, Kala, Will, and Felix will in his stead.

He's to the door, gun extended, when both Kala and Will intercept him. He hears their words vaguely. _Protective custody. Send the police._ He knows in his bones that their solutions will not bear out; he knows his only path is through the snow, after his father, to an inevitable end. He leaves, grabbing Will's keys off the table in the entryway, and follows his father down the ice-bound road in the sedan.

He knows no one will intercept him; he knows that this night is his alone, and he knows he will remember it.

By the time they reach the wooded street his parents reside on, he's cold with sweat and determined in a way he cannot remember feeling before. Anton has returned to the house before him, his car door left open, dinging. Wolfgang passes it with disgust and climbs the stairs, and when he enters the disheveled house, he sees his father preaching to his mother, drunk, arms extended with a bottle in his right hand.

"--the Americans, the CIA," he spits as Irina shrinks back, her eyes hesitantly on Wolfgang.

Her face is a field of bruises and Wolfgang regrets his reluctance to believe her phone calls from last night.

"Traitor," says Anton, the words twisting like his face. "Our son, a traitor."

Wolfgang aims, cold and steady, but Irina shrieks and shoves Anton out of the way. The misplaced duty has gone too long and too far, and Wolfgang rushes to push his mother out of the action.

"You can't, you--" Irina stops.

Wolfgang imagines her face is as it was twenty-four years ago, newly pregnant, determined to stitch the frazzled threads together.

"Do it," laughs Anton, opening his arms wide. "Kill your father. Kill me."

"You're drunk," hisses Irina, terrified. "You're drunk, Anton--"

He hits her in the face. She falls. Wolfgang moves to shoot, but Irina stands again, barely coherent, tears streaming.

"You don't deserve this," she whispers to Wolfgang. "This isn't your burden. You will never forget it--"

"He did too much to us, Mama," says Wolfgang quietly, words repeated from his childhood, an explanation that, despite being ambiguous, gave a distinct impression that a line had been crossed, that expected violence had turned depraved.

"Too much," says Anton, drunk, laughing and coughing as his oxygen cannula falls away. Wolfgang is sure his father senses danger, and this is corroborated by his next words, an invitation to a fight. "Do you want to know, Irina?"

It has been a long time since Wolfgang heard his mother's name in his father's mouth. It sounds unnatural.

"Do you want to know what I did?" he jeers. "Why don't you tell your mother how you didn't even fight? How weak you were, how you took it like a faggot--"

"No," says Wolfgang, all instinct, moving closer. Suddenly, he is capable of pleading. "You can't tell her. You can't, you'll kill her--"

"This bitch," spits Anton, gesturing to Wolfgang, "He asked for it!"

"Mama," says Wolfgang in apology and despair.

Irina's brow crinkles. Anton hunches like a hound crouching for a rat.

"My son," Irina whispers after a slow moment. "Not my son, you -- you --"

Wolfgang sees her confusion transform to realization, then wrath, but his reaction time is slow, dulled by vodka and shock.

"Not my child," says Irina, voice like iron. "Not him."

Her hand reaches the gun on Wolfgang's side. The next few seconds happen in slow motion. Irina lifts the gun, aiming unsteadily; Wolfgang hears the shot and blood splatters his face and his mother's. His father falls, dead instantly, blood leaking from his temple.

Wolfgang looks in bewilderment at his mother, who brings the gun to her own head with the detachment of a wave hitting the shore, as if this end was natural. Wolfgang tackles her against the wall; she struggles, screaming, but he wrestles the gun from her; then she bends at the waist and lets out a quiet but piercing cry, shaking. Wolfgang is unsure if this grief is because she was unsuccessful in killing herself, or because she was successful in killing her husband.

Wolfgang quickly dispenses the bullets from the gun and throws it aside, then stares at his mother, who heaves and pants. Somehow, she stands; she folds into him without meeting his gaze and he hugs her tired frame, eyes on the body of his father.

He expected to see his father dead tonight, but not like this. He hopes the relief comes later. He hopes the relief is untainted by grief for his mother, who he doubts will survive this.

***

At Will's apartment, Kala gathers her things in a hurry and rushes to put her boots on. Will and Felix both talk at her.

"You can't go back there right now," says Will insistently.

"I need to find out if Sergei knows," she hisses. "I need to warn Wolfgang--"

"Sergei will kill you," argues Felix. "If he knows already, you won't be able to escape."

"I don't think he knows," Kala says softly as she puts her bag over her shoulder. "I think Wolfgang's father came here first."

"I do too, but we can't know that," replies Will. "Kala, listen, Wolfgang will do what he has to but he'll never forgive himself if you go back there and--"

"Sergei has men all over the city!" Kala yells. "I want to be able to warn Wolfgang before one of them finds him, or his mother, or both of them."

"Christ," mutters Will, turning in a slow circle around his apartment.

"This is fucking stupid," adds Felix.

She pulls her jacket on hurriedly and reaches for the door, but Will stops her. She tries to shake him off.

"I can't let you do this," says Will quietly.

"I'm not a child," Kala replies, voice calm. "I want to go. I know how to be careful."

His grip softens slightly on her shoulders as he considers. She takes this chance to rip herself away from him and she flies outside, heading to a U-Bahn station at a run. It would have been prudent of Anton to go first to the mansion and explain to his brother that she and Wolfgang became police informants, but based on her limited knowledge of the man, she finds it more likely that he came here first to antagonize them. It's possible that Anton called Sergei or went directly to the mansion after coming to Will's apartment -- again, however, she thinks it is more likely he returned to Irina to brag about his discovery.

She jogs down the steps of the U-Bahn, hair flying, gripping the rail so she doesn't fall after the wine and whiskey. She darts onto a train just as it departs and sits down, panting, eyes wide. She knows the man she saw at the corner of the CIA building was Anton -- she knew at the time how odd the presence of a man like that was, and her stomach clenches at the fact that she didn't mention it. She prays Wolfgang reached him quickly and ended it quickly, but if she has learned anything from her time with this family, it is that their actions are often impulsive, messy, and misplaced.

The ride to the mansion feels endless, and by the time she turns down the lane with the house gleaming in the snow before her, she's weak on her feet. She glances into her purse for a gun, but as she expected, she left it on her bedside table. She hurries to Wolfgang's car near the hedges after slipping through the fence, feeling underneath it for a gun attached magnetically, a common trick. She finds one and exhales in relief, then checks that it is loaded and proceeds to the front door.

She holds the gun close to her chest, breath quiet, and cracks the door open. She pads inside silently, listening. Then she softens.

"--moved into that account, along with the shares in Panama," Sergei is saying, voice untroubled. "Yes, those."

She assumes he is on the phone when she hears no other voices. Still, this is all the information she needs -- it is clear Sergei does not know what Anton found out. Surely he would not be conducting everyday business if the news had reached him. She keeps the gun close nonetheless as she tiptoes past the den, up the stairs, and towards her room. She goes inside, glancing around, but the room is thankfully empty.

She pauses for a brief moment, and then she takes her suitcase from the closet. It's instinctive, as if no other action is logical in this moment. She's sure, after Anton's death, that Wolfgang will be forced to flee, and she is not willing to stay here without him.

She begins to take her clothing from the closet and return it to the suitcase. She folds and rolls things quickly, sweating and shaking slightly; she runs her hands through her hair until it is wild with frizz and her eyes shine bright as she tucks her medical textbooks into the side of the suitcase. She has just reached for the zipper when the floor creaks and she looks up, expecting Wolfgang.

Her mouth goes dry. Ajay stares at her, eyes jumping from her face to the suitcase. He was not supposed to return until tomorrow, and she assumes he called to tell her the change of plans, but she let her phone go ignored while she was at Will's.

She knows there are no words that will explain the scene he walked in on. She knows it's damning. She swallows and stiffens, preparing, and her eyes find her pistol on the bedside table. It is slightly too far to reach. The other gun is too far as well, perched on the opposite side of the bed. Ajay follows her gaze, enraged, and she backs against the wall.

"Ajay, this -- I -- I thought we could take a trip--"

"Don't say another word," says Ajay in a low, bitter voice as he approaches her. "Not another word."

"Ajay--"

He slams her against the wall, face contorted and close. She sinks into the wall and begins to cry, chest pounding.

"Please," she whispers. "Please, please don't do this."

He clenches her shirt in his hand. "What were you going to do? Run away while I was gone?"

Tears pour. The alcohol she had accentuates her terror and clouds her usual excuses. His gaze convinces her that he'll kill her tonight and that this event is only moments away. She begins to rapidly shake her head, unable to do anything else.

Escape was close. If Wolfgang had returned rather than Ajay, she would have gotten away -- they would have gotten away, together. But Wolfgang did not return and she is trapped. She hopes it's quick. She hopes he shoots her. But she doubts this will be his approach, and this is confirmed when he pulls her away from the wall, only to slam her against it again. Pain radiates through her body, head pounding, and she whimpers.

"Please, I'll never do this again, please don't--"

He hits her in the face with the back of his hand, his clunky ring catching and cutting her cheek. She holds her face, knees nearly giving out, but she knows she has to stay standing if she has any hope of fighting back.

He steps away and hurls the contents of the suitcase on the floor. She hears the heavy books clunk and her heartbeat accelerates wildly. She instinctively begins to pray.

"Cut that out," snarls Ajay and she stops. He picks up one of the textbooks and holds it up. "What's this?"

It seems impossible that only an hour ago, she was dancing with Wolfgang; she tells herself she should be grateful for that moment, for that goodbye.

"It's a book," she says in a hollow tone.

"I know," snaps Ajay. "Why do you have it?"

Lying is useless at this point, and she refuses to die without him knowing the truth -- it's his punishment and her final act of defiance.

"Your friend gave it to me," she admits. "Your doctor friend. I was going to leave you and go to medical school."

Ajay laughs loudly and drops the book. He walks slowly towards her again.

"Oh, you stupid cunt," he murmurs, amused.

She winces at the word.

"You stupid bitch," he goes on in a whisper. "How'd you get the book? Did you suck him off, hm?" He grabs her by her shirt again, tugs her closer, and laughs humorlessly. "What else have you been up to? Been fucking Sergei's nephew?"

Kala lifts her gaze, eyes suddenly steely. She realizes, even if he puts his gun to her head tonight, that he will still lose. The investigation is over; the police are in position.

"Your life is over just like mine," she hisses.

"Oh, it is?" he says with another laugh.

"You took advantage of me," she breathes. "You took advantage of my grief. I was sixteen. I was a child. You knew exactly how long it would take for me to trust you, and then you hit me, and raped me, and you knew I would believe your apologies. You thought you wouldn't pay for everything you did." She begins to cry again, but her eyes don't leave his; her voice jumps an octave, scratchy. "But you will pay. You will."

Ajay doesn't react. He studies the ferocity of her expression, and after a moment, she notices a flicker of fear in his eyes. She spoke with too much intensity for him to pass her words off as an empty threat.

She's about to speak, but she stops, noting a glint on his belt -- his gun.

She knows her next action could go gravely astray, but she finds herself with no other option. In one swift motion, she takes his gun from his holster. He struggles to wrestle it from her before she can aim, but he fails and quickly backs away as she lifts it.

"Kala--"

"Get out," she interrupts, hands trembling slightly.

She has never pointed a gun at someone with the intention to kill them if they refuse her requests. The magnitude of this shakes her, but she swallows and steadies herself.

"Kala, be reasonable--"

"I will kill you," she breathes. "If you do not leave right now, I will kill you."

He puts his hands up, head down, and slowly retreats with an expression twisted by rage and shame. He disappears out of the room and she breathes hard, listening to his footsteps echo in the hall. After a moment, she darts to the door and locks it, then braces one of the armchairs against it as an extra security measure.

She looks at the gun in her hand, frightened, and sets it gingerly on the bed. She wants to sit down and weep, but she doesn't do this, not yet. She repacks her suitcase and her books. She washes the blood from her cheek. She puts her hair up in a neat ponytail and applies enough makeup to conceal the fresh bruises.

She's just reached into her purse to ensure her passport is there when her phone rings. It's Wolfgang and she answers instantly.

"Kala," he says in a heavy, defeated voice.

His tone stops her breath. "W-Wolfgang? Is -- is he--?"

"He's dead," says Wolfgang shortly. "I need you to help me."

She swallows her dread. "With what?"

"My mother," he replies. "Please. I can't leave her alone right now."

This was not what Kala expected, but she nods rapidly. "Where are you?"

"A hotel, do you have something to write an address on?" he asks.

A chill runs to the tips of her fingers as she considers why a hotel is necessary. She scrambles for a pen and pulls a journal from her purse.

"Yes, go on…" She scribbles the address of the hotel, then snaps the journal shut and puts it away. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

She takes her suitcase from the bed and removes the chair from the door, then slips down the hall, down the stairs, and through the kitchen into the back courtyard. Her encounter with Ajay was so sudden and so brief that it feels like a strange dream, replaced now with a new one. She hauls her bag through the snow and escapes through the hedges, hastens across a greenway, and reaches the road.

She calls for a taxi, hugging herself as the sleet comes down, and shivers in silence until the car pulls up for her. She shares the address with the driver, then leans back in her seat, thawing in the warmth of the car, suddenly more exhausted than she can ever recall being. She wants to cry herself to sleep, but she suspects the night has more in store.

The hotel is in the south of the city, nestled near a canal and several cheery restaurants. The weather has worsened by the time the taxi drops her here and she hurries inside. She glances at her journal to remind herself of the room number. Her feet are reluctant as she steps into the elevator -- she doesn't understand why yet, but she senses she isn't prepared for what happened.

She knocks quietly on the door to the room and it opens immediately, only a few inches, the chain still locked. Wolfgang looks at her with fierce eyes and quickly unlatches the chain so she can come in. He pauses for a moment, looking from her bruised face to her suitcase.

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

"Later," she says. "Why are we here--"

She's interrupted by a gasping, strangled sob in the next room. She looks in horror at Wolfgang, who glances down and shakes his head slowly.

"She shot him," he murmurs. "Not me. She stole my gun and I wasn't fast enough to stop her."

Kala feels a chill settle uncomfortably in her chest. Her breath abates as she stares at Wolfgang.

"Dead?" she whispers. "She shot him dead?"

"Yes," says Wolfgang.

"Why did--"

"It doesn't matter, it's done," says Wolfgang in a clipped tone. "I can't get her to stop crying. You're a woman, maybe you--"

"I don't know any better than you," says Kala, frightened by this task.

"His body is still at their house, I have to fix that," Wolfgang tells her. "And I can't leave her alone, she'll hurt herself." He breathes out. "Do you have anything like Paxil?"

Kala shakes her head. "No, I'm sorry."

"I thought about mixing vodka in her tea but she won't drink anything," he replies.

"I don't think alcohol will help," says Kala gently as Irina sobs again.

Wolfgang clenches his teeth and looks down, shaking. Kala puts her hands on his shoulders, stepping closer, studying his expression -- his eyes are closed, his jaw tight; he's close to collapsing.

"She won't recover from this," he says, voice deadly quiet. "She'll have too much guilt."

"Don't say that yet," says Kala.

"I know my mother," he replies.

Kala shifts on her feet, desperate for the right words, but they elude her. She bites her bottom lip hard, thinking, and then she simply nods.

"Do what you have to," she tells him. "I'll take care of her."

"Thank you," he mutters, guiding her from the foyer of the suite to one of the bedrooms.

Irina is on the bed, curled into a C-shape, her back to them. She shakes visibly as she cries.

"Mom," murmurs Wolfgang. "I have to go out. I'll be back soon."

Irina whips over, staring at him with mascara-smeared eyes. "No, no, you can't go anywhere, you have to stay--"

"Kala will stay with you, okay?" he says firmly.

Kala exhales to steady herself. Irina still hasn't wiped the blood splatter from her face; she imagines Wolfgang sneaked her in via the stairs; she wonders if he had to carry her, considering how fragile she appears tonight.

"I'll stay here," confirms Kala, trying to infuse warmth in her voice. "I'll get you cleaned up, okay? And I can get you something to eat."

Irina shakes her head. "No, Wolfgang, you have to stay."

"I can't stay," he insists. "I'll be back soon."

"A-are you bringing the police?"

"No," says Wolfgang. "Why would I--" He cuts himself off. "I won't be gone long. You're safe here, I promise. You have to trust me."

Irina slowly nods, eyes moving from his face to Kala's. Kala tries to smile, but her lips falter slightly at the pathetic sight of Irina.

"Okay," says Irina, barely a whisper.

"Okay?" checks Wolfgang.

"Okay," she repeats, nodding again.

He gestures for Kala to follow him back to the foyer and he gently takes her arms as they meet eyes.

"I'm sorry about this," he admits. "Is Ajay still in St. Petersburg? Are you safe here?"

Kala swallows. "Ajay is…" She trails off and nods. "I'm safe here. Are -- are you safe? How are you going to--"

"I've done this before," he says shortly. "I'm okay."

He releases her and leaves without another word. She stands still in the foyer for a moment, suddenly cold, and then another sob startles her. She walks stiffly into the bedroom, as if towards a punishment, and stares desolately at Irina.

Then she goes into the bathroom, runs warm water over a washcloth, and returns. She sits next to Irina and puts a soft hand on her side.

"I...I brought you this, for your face," stumbles Kala.

Irina shakes her head defiantly.

"Please?" tries Kala. "It will feel good. You'll feel better. A shower would be even better if you're up for that, or I can run you a bath--"

"A bath," says Irina with surprising clarity.

Kala exhales in relief and rubs Irina's shoulder. She goes back into the bathroom to run the faucet and adds a generous amount of bubble bath from one of the hotel's bottles. When she returns to the bedroom, Irina has sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Kala smiles reassuringly at her.

"Do you want tea?" she asks.

Irina stares at the opposite wall. "It happened so quickly."

Kala stiffens. "You don't need to talk about--"

"I've never shot a gun before," she goes on, tone almost casual now. "I didn't realize how it jumps in your hands like that."

Kala's pulse hastens and she pauses as she reaches for the phone to order tea. "It -- it can be quite surprising."

"You've shot a gun?" asks Irina, interested.

"I have, yes," says Kala slowly.

"Well, you are a mobster's girlfriend," says Irina with a tilt of her head. "And a mobster's wife."

Kala swallows, looking for a shift in topics. "Ajay and I will be getting a divorce soon."

"Good, because Wolfgang shouldn't have to share you," says Irina with a firm nod. Then she puts her hand on her heart and stares out the window at the sheets of sleet. "He...he needs more good things in his life. He didn't deserve anything that happened to him." She stops, voice growing higher, and then she whispers, "I should have protected him."

"I'm sure you tried," says Kala kindly. "But you're very small and his father hurt you too."

"I didn't know," says Irina, voice wrecked, shaking her head listlessly. "How is that possible that I didn't know?"

Kala blinks, suddenly rigid, and she considers the possibility that Irina shot Anton in a moment of shock and rage. She can picture the entire, gut-wrenching sequence.

"Wolfgang doesn't share very much," Kala replies -- it is the only response which won't further complicate this conversation. "I think your bath is ready."

Irina nods and wipes her eyes. Kala helps her to her feet and into the bathroom, and then Kala sinks to the floor just outside the door. She listens intently to the gentle splashes, ensuring Irina is not attempting to drown herself, and then she presses her face into her knees and finally lets herself cry.

***

Wolfgang parks one street over from the street his parents' home is on; he knows he should have done this before to avoid placing Will's CIA-issued car at a crime scene, but he had no time to spare. He lights a cigarette as he walks through the sleet. Tonight is quiet and moonless; throughout the neighborhood, scattered dogs bark; the wind pulls the last colorful leaves off the trees and disperses them on the grimy ice.

He is frightened for his mother, but deeper, there is a tide of intoxicating relief that threatens to drown all doubts. He doesn't care his immunity deal is now in question. He doesn't care that he will have to run. It is enough that his father is dead.

He debated killing him for years and resisted only to protect his mother, who was attached to him despite all he did to her. Wolfgang was sure that killing his father would destroy his relationship with his mother, because it would prove his capacity for violence, and Irina naively assumed he was softer and more sensitive than Anton and Sergei. He was sure that if he killed Anton, Irina would become afraid of him, and slowly lose her trust in him.

Despite this, Wolfgang would have shot him tonight, had Irina not spared him the need. He knows that moment will haunt her, and he knows she'll struggle to keep her guilt contained -- he can already see her stumbling into Sergei's den and maniacally confessing what she did. He knows, as deeply as he has ever known anything, that this is the moment that will define her dark nights. He feels there is no solution to any of this, but as he gets closer to the house, these concerns fade. There is only relief.

He expects his mother to go through a complicated grieving process, but already he's sure he won't -- his father was a barrier, nothing more, and now he is gone.

He reaches their house and ascends the short staircase, then unlocks the door. Anton's body is slumped near the kitchen, blood now pooling and coagulating around it. Wolfgang doesn't feel the need for a detailed look. He passes the body and enters the bedroom, where he takes his mother's trunk of pictures and keepsakes. He sets it outside, then goes into the kitchen, where he takes out a pan and large jug of oil.

Anton himself taught Wolfgang how to disguise arson as accidental. Wolfgang smiles grimly at this. He puts the stove on high, adds oil to the pan for authenticity, then pours a stream of oil over the electrical coils. Thick gray smoke begins to stream up from the stove and Wolfgang leaves to get a blanket from the living room. When he returns, he throws it over the stove -- now a conflagration -- and flames rip through the fabric and begin to jump to the rug on the floor.

He leaves quickly, hoisting the trunk on his shoulder, and returns through the snow to the car. He puts the trunk in the backseat, then collapses in the driver's seat, body spent.

Relief washes over him in waves -- cold, clear, purifying -- and he remembers a moment from five years ago: sitting alone in his car, crying from relief, after learning the cancer was terminal. His father surely deserved to slowly expire, to drown in the fluid in his lungs. A bullet was too kind, but now that it's done, Wolfgang doesn't care. It matters only that he is dead, unable to hurt everyone Wolfgang loves.

Wolfgang sits unmoving for a moment, staring at the sleet as it hisses on his windshield. His mother would have refused to leave Berlin with Anton still alive, still sick. Now she has no reason to stay, and neither does he. And after Kala's hesitance to explain what happened with Ajay, he suspects she doesn't either. The ropes that keep them here have been frayed and their ships have been cast adrift.

He breathes out very slowly, body aching from exhaustion alone, and begins to drive back to the hotel. First, however, he circles and inches past the house, now ablaze. He pauses briefly, the flames reflecting in his watergreen eyes. Then his lips form a small, flinty smile and he drives away.

He reaches the hotel quickly despite the weather and braces as he enters the room. He listens attentively, but all is quiet, which means Kala at least coaxed Irina to stop crying. He walks, steps gentle to avoid making noise, and deadbolts the door. Then he continues into the bedroom, where he finds his mother asleep, wearing a colorful blouse - clearly Kala's. Her hair is braided neatly and she still has a mug of tea in her hands, slightly tilted. Kala is near her in a chair, watching with a protective gaze.

She has a fresh, painful bruise on her cheek. She's let her wild hair down now and he suspects she took a shower, because she's wrapped in a kimono-style robe. The air still smells sweet from the soap she used and even in the dim light, she glows.

He wonders if his reluctance to act on his attraction was due to self-preservation -- he wouldn't want to get involved, then lose her. He ended things with Will out of self-preservation, and it would only be natural for the same mechanism to be in place here. But he doubts that this is why he hesitated. He fears losing her, of course, but this does not compare to the fear he has of a relationship with her itself -- he feels he could be consumed by it, changed by it, and he's unsure he's ready.

Kala gets up when she sees him and slowly exits the bedroom. She shuts the door behind her to join him in the foyer, putting her arms at once around him. Her eyes are lit with a determination he hasn't seen in them before.

"Is it done?" she whispers.

He nods in confirmation. She appears anxious to express something, but she pauses a moment before speaking, slightly closer to him. There's a new energy, a new closeness. Kala seems to have reached a decision about something while he was gone.

She breathes out, features soft, eyes warm. She smiles.

"Wolfgang," she says quietly.

He frowns slightly. "Kala?"

"I want to be with you," she says serenely.

He stares at her. He isn't sure what he was expecting, but after a day like this, it wasn't this.

"I'm not sure I…" he trails off, because he does understand; he wants to be with her too.

She inhales quickly, then stretches on her toes and kisses him.

He doesn't initially react, too stunned; at first, he notices things he's never noticed in a kiss -- the texture of her lips, slightly chapped but soft, the lingering taste of tea. It seems impossible that this woman is kissing him here, now. Her timing is so startling he nearly pulls away.

Then she opens her mouth slightly, her tongue brushing his, and he groans quietly, pulled under by her current. He grips her against him and she moans as the kiss slows and deepens. He's held her before, but her body feels different with only silk concealing it, and he feels his cock instantly twitch. She moans again and he breathes out, sliding his hands slowly up her back; she locks her arms around his neck, body flush against his, and he notices her smile hard through the kiss.

He smiles too, then holds her face in his hands and kisses her more fiercely, thumbing over her cheekbones. She trembles slightly at this gesture and pulls away after another moment; he lingers, reluctant to break the kiss. She nuzzles her nose gently on his, grinning, blissful.

"I wanted to do that from the moment I saw you," she whispers.

He leans his forehead on hers, desperate for her. "I didn't know you felt like this."

"I do," she murmurs. "Do you?"

He nods hard and kisses her in response, his thumbs once again gentle on her face. She smiles again, pulling her hands over his chest, and they stay like this as heat builds. She moans quietly into his mouth after a moment and pulls away as if nervous she won't stop if the kiss continues.

"I think we should sleep," she says reluctantly.

He breathes out. His cock is already uncomfortably erect in his pants.

"I'm sorry," she adds. "I -- I want to sleep with you, but I need more time."

He shakes his head and kisses her chastely. "I understand."

She smiles at him, eyes sparkling, and then she blushes deeply and chuckles. "I, um, I do want to sleep _next_ to you tonight."

He nods, smiling, and slides his hand down to take hers. He squeezes it gently and her smile widens. He excuses himself for a brief shower and comes back to find her in the other bedroom, under the covers, the lights already out. She smiles invitingly at him and he gets under the covers next to her, holding her close. They share a gentle, lingering kiss, and she smiles and slides her hands over his pecs.

"Hi," she murmurs, blushing again.

He chuckles. "Hi. Why do you have a suitcase?"

Her eyes darken. "Oh. I wasn't sure I would have an opportunity to pack after everything that happened tonight, in case we needed to --" She stops herself. "I… I shouldn't assume--"

"I want you to come with me," he assures her.

She softens and nods. "I'll go anywhere you go."

His mouth twitches in a small, appreciative smile. Then he exhales and touches his thumb lightly to the bruise on her face.

"Did he catch you?" he asks. "I thought he was gone."

She swallows and glances down. "He came back early."

Wolfgang nods and combs his hand gently through her hair.

"He would have killed me but I stole his gun and I...I made him leave. I don't know where he went but I'm sure he'll come back, I'm sure he'll want revenge."

He shakes his head. "This is all almost over. My father is dead, Dolokhov is coming to Berlin in five days, and…"

She smiles. "And we have each other now."

He looks at her warily for such a sappy comment. She grins and kisses him so that he laughs, and then he holds her closer and touches his nose to hers. She meets his eyes with a gentle smile, then kisses him once more before turning over.

He hugs her from behind, face nestled in her hair, and closes his eyes. He hopes he isn't holding her too tightly, but the intensity of his happiness is almost painful, and he needs her this close. He doesn't want morning to come; he doesn't want a single reason to let go of her. Her touch is redemptive; holding her is the closest to God he has ever felt, and he believes for the first time that the future could be better, not worse.


	7. She knows the song won't save her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfgang and Irina cope with the fallout of Anton's death. Kala faces an encounter with Ajay.

* * *

 

_She's fragile and she's ferocious_

_As the current flows through_

 

Kala gives a soft inhale and opens her eyes, abruptly awake from falling a long distance in a dream. She presses closer to Wolfgang under the covers for comfort; then her breath stops and her eyes flicker frantically over him. She kissed him last night. She told him she wanted to be with him. Impossibly, he kissed her back and returned the feeling.

She studies his profile in the morning light and shivers slightly, pulse already up; she clicks her tongue gently on her teeth, an expression of affection and desire, and reaches to touch the corner of his mouth with her fingertips. His lips twitch in a tiny smirk, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

Her gaze tracks his expression, serene and amused, and she breathes in as he turns and slides his hand firmly over her hip. She shifts her legs, fighting the desire to initiate a kiss that asks for something more serious. She didn’t realize the simple act of waking up together would provoke this in her, and she feels slightly ashamed given yesterday’s events -- she assumes he needs time to process them and to deal with his mother.

“Are you alright?” she whispers. “Well, as alright as you can be after seeing something like…” She trails off. “I’m sorry, last night I didn’t think, I was so impatient to finally tell you how I felt and now I think I was inconsiderate--”

“After everything, the only thing I wanted to do last night,” he interrupts gently, “is kiss you and fall asleep.”

She smiles and tilts her head affectionately.

He kisses her quickly before asking, “Why last night?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“What made you realize?” he replies, and the tone of his voice suggests to her that he’s asked this.

She exhales, brow knitted slightly, and she gives a small shake of her head. “I've liked you for a long time.”

He frowns. “Why?”

She gives a soft laugh. “Wolfgang…”

He relaxes, chuckling too. “What? You didn’t notice what an asshole I am?”

“No, I know,” she says seriously. “But you’re a good man. And you treat me better than any man ever has. And you protect me even when you shouldn’t…”

She senses caution and vulnerability, which she knows is uncomfortable for him. He struggles to find the next words, so she spares him the trouble.

“I like _you_ , though,” she reassures him. “You. Not only what you’ve done for me. This isn’t gratitude.”

“Then what is it?” he murmurs.

She sniffles, her tears catching her by surprise, and she touches his lips. She’s unable, for now, to say the word “love” aloud, so she whispers, “You know what it is.”

He nods, then pulls her against him and kisses her deeply, slowly, expressing the warmth that always seems to elude him with words. She inhales at the sensation, shaken by how much she wants him -- she’s never craved going to bed with a man, not like this, not with fire and desperation in her chest. She feels his cock twitch against her tummy and heat floods to the tips of her fingers and toes, but as much as she wants him, as sure as she is that she won’t regret betraying Ajay, she wants the moment they do this to be deliberate, unrushed.

“Oh God,” she breathes on his lips. “I’m...I’m not used to wanting this…I’m not sure that I ever have wanted it…”

He brushes his thumb along the side of one breast. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

“Really?” she asks, barely audible.

“No,” he says honestly.

She swallows and brushes her nose against his. Her heart pounds with such intensity that she’s sure he can feel the pulse against him.

“Tonight?” she asks.

He raises his eyebrows gently. “With your husband next door? That’s hot…”

She laughs and nudges him. “No, no. Here.”

He laughs too and kisses her again. “You sure you don’t want him to hear you moan when I’m inside of you?”

She flushes and fights a sudden shiver. “Wolfgang…”

He slides his hand over her ass. “What?”

“You can’t say things like that…”

He chuckles and kisses her gently. “I thought you were used to me by now.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she says playfully, touching her nose to his, inviting him to kiss her again.

He kisses her and shifts her so she’s on top of him, and she pulls away, laughing and hugging him. He wraps his arms tightly around her and nestles his face into her hair.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, squeezing her. “Don’t want to let go of you…”

“This can’t be real,” she whispers. “This can’t exist in the same universe as...everything else.”

He shakes his head slowly. “That’s how I feel about you.” He hums. “You looked so out of place in my uncle’s house, like you came from a different world.”

She smiles indulgently. “I did in a way.”

He chuckles. “No, a different world like...Neverland.”

She lifts up, smiling wider, and looks at him warmly “Hm, you’d make a good lost boy…”

“I liked that book when I was a kid,” he tells her. “The idea I could fly away.” He hums again, rubbing his fingers over his lips, eyes on the ceiling. He shakes his head with a slight smile. “Felix and I did a lot of sword fighting with old pipes after I read that. Ended up being useful, actually, he ran someone through with some rebar once…”

Kala breathes in. “Lovely…”

He laughs and pats her ass gently. “Yeah.”

She grins and snuggles closer, eyes bright as they meet his. “I liked that story too, although I never read the book. But I loved the film. I loved the way that story talks about faith, how it isn’t something passive but something you need to...hm, consciously sustain.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he quietly says, “You’re the first thing in my life that made me think God might exist.”

She stops breathing and her fingers tighten on his shoulder; she looks at him with intense surprise.

“What?” she asks. “You - do you mean that?”

“Yes,” he says firmly. “It seems impossible that I met you.”

She blinks away her tears and rubs her thumb over his cheek. He holds her closer and strokes her back. They look into each other’s eyes for a moment, both slightly smiling.

Then the door opens, revealing Irina with a tray of coffee. Wolfgang inhales and hastily moves his hand to a higher location on Kala’s back. Kala turns over to see Irina, flushed.

Irina watches them expressionlessly for a moment, as if forming an opinion, and then she gives into a shaky, vulnerable smile.

“Do you two want coffee?”

Wolfgang and Kala exchange a cautious glance at Irina’s attempt to appear unfazed this morning. He lets go of her and slowly gets to his feet, then helps his mother set the coffee on a table nearby. He rubs his hands up and down her arms, watching her, gauging.

Kala sits up, tucking her hair behind her ears, eyes heavy and dark as she looks at them.

“Did you sleep enough?” Wolfgang checks.

Irina nods.

He nods too, more unsurely. “You know we have to see Sergei. I’m sure he knows by now.”

“I don’t want to see him,” says Irina. “I want to stay here. With you.”

“I know, but he’ll be suspicious if we don’t see him,” says Wolfgang measuredly.

Irina begins to breathe rapidly and shake her head. Kala gets to her feet and crosses the room to wrap her arms around Irina.

“It’s alright,” she says quietly. “All you have to do is tell him you’re sorry for his loss…”

Irina continues to shake her head.

“How -- how did you...what did you do to…?” she stumbles at Wolfgang.

“I burned the house down,” says Wolfgang.

Kala’s eyes widen and she fails to hide her shock when she snaps her head in his direction. Irina holds very still, and then she launches at Wolfgang, crying.

“What? What? Where’s -- what did you--”

“I have your pictures,” he says, holding her wrists and pushing her arms back so she stops grabbing desperately at him.

“The...the whole house?” she asks mournfully. “Our house?”

“Nothing good ever happened in that house,” he retorts.

She takes his face in her hands. “You were born in that house.”

“It was the only thing I could think of. It had to look like an accident.”

“No,” she whispers, and then she starts to openly sob and sinks to the floor.

Wolfgang closes his eyes and exhales for a long time. Kala shakes her head slightly, close to tears, and glances at Wolfgang. He opens his eyes and shrugs at her to communicate that this is the response he expected, if not worse.

“Mama,” he says and Kala’s heart jumps at how softly he says this. “It’s okay. I saved your trunk. And we wouldn’t have lived there anyway. We’re going to get out of this city.”

Irina just shakes her head, weeping, in a hapless pile on the floor. Kala looks again at Wolfgang before sitting next to Irina and rubbing her shoulders. Wolfgang leans to trail his touch along Kala’s arm as he walks past her to pick up his clothes draped on a chair nearby.

He begins to get dressed, asking,“I’ll get you something to eat, what do you want?”

Irina doesn’t answer so Kala murmurs, “Anything with eggs, thank you.”

He nods, putting on his leather jacket. Kala notices a faint smell of grease and smoke as he passes her and she closes her eyes briefly, staggered; she sometimes finds herself unable to process the way men solve problems.

“Keep the door locked,” he tells her as he leaves.

She nods at him and gives Irina a gentle squeeze. “You’ll feel better when you eat something. What about some of the coffee you brought us in the meantime?”

Irina lifts her face and shrugs, then gives Kala a feeble smile. “You’ll be a wonderful mother.”

Kala blinks, startled, but she can’t help smiling back; then she glances down with a fierce grin at the realization that this is something she can now look forward to, rather than something to fear. The grin transforms quickly into overwhelmed tears; she’s unsure she’ll ever stop succumbing to tears when she thinks about a future with Wolfgang.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Irina huffs. “I’m sorry I’m such a child...I’m sure Wolfgang feels like he took care of me more than I did of him.”

“You never meant to put him in that position,” whispers Kala.

“I should have been stronger,” says Irina in a small voice.

“I think we all feel that way sometimes,” Kala replies carefully, getting up to pour the coffee into two mugs. She leans to nudge Irina and smiles warmly at her. “Coffee always helps. Even on days like these.”

Irina sighs and stands up, wiping her face, and Kala nods in the direction of the sofa in the adjoining suite. Irina follows her and they sit together. Kala notices a small leather trunk on the opposite chair. Irina stares at it and begins to cry again, slumping.

“I-- I can’t believe he--” she gasps. “He...he could have...well, I don’t know what he could have done but…” She sobs into her hands. “Oh God, oh God…”

Kala rubs her back, expression soft and full of grief; then she glances at the trunk, struck by an idea, and pulls it from the chair to the table in front of her.

“Maybe it would make you feel better to look at these?” suggests Kala. “I’m sure the memories you have of Wolfgang are more important than the place itself…”

Irina nods hopefully and she coughs. Kala puts one of the cups of coffee into her hands and smiles encouragingly as she takes a sip.

“Can I look with you?” she asks as she clicks the trunk open with her slender fingertips.

Irina nods and Kala reaches into the trunk for the first picture.

“It will be like an...archeological excavation,” murmurs Irina. “They are in reverse chronological order.”

Kala glances at Irina, marveling sadly at this woman’s ability to fluctuate between disordered grief and perfect clarity. Then she looks at the first picture and instantly crumbles and giggles into her lap.

“Oh no,” she whispers. “Oh my God.”

The first picture is of Wolfgang, Felix, and Will fighting over a German flag in front of a television that, Kala can tell, is showing a soccer match. All three men are clearly trying desperately not to laugh.

Irina rolls her eyes. “Felix was holding the flag up every time Germany scored...and Will finally got annoyed and tried to take it...and of course my son sided with his friend and his own country…oh, they were impossible to watch soccer with.”

Kala smiles slowly as she looks at Irina. “I’m surprised you knew about Will...”

Irina nods. “I’m sure Wolfgang didn’t want to tell me. I think Will was the one who asked him to. I always liked Will.”

“I like him too,” admits Kala. “And Felix. They both care about Wolfgang so much.” She touches Wolfgang’s face in the picture. “He looks so young here.”

“He was almost twenty,” says Irina.

Kala hums affectionately and sets the picture aside, then reaches for a new one, which depicts Wolfgang asleep on the couch with a bottle of apple juice in his arms. Kala squints.

“He drank things right out of the bottle as a teenager,” says Irina. “He wouldn’t stop when I asked him to. I think here he was watching a movie, drinking apple juice, and he fell asleep…”

Kala grins. “Oh, terrible.” Then she laughs, touching his face again with her finger. “I’m sure you had a very difficult time keeping girls away from him…”

Irina covers her face, trying not to smile, and then she breaks into a laugh and shakes her head. “The amount of times I saw some girl run out of his room early in the morning...it was so embarrassing for me but of course he wasn’t embarrassed. He’d get up and say good morning and ask me what was for breakfast.”

“I don’t think he’s capable of feeling embarrassed,” murmurs Kala.

“He isn’t,” agrees Irina, “although he never brought boys home, but that wasn’t embarrassment it was...smart. Except Felix, although only when Anton was out because of course he assumed...” She clears her throat. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Kala nods and hastily takes another picture from the trunk. This one shows the same couch, and the same sleeping teenager, though this time Felix is present, also asleep, slumped on Wolfgang’s shoulder. She touches her heart briefly and continues to look through the trunk; she finds photos of Wolfgang throughout his teenage years, one of him reading intently; one of him in a bare, snowy yard with two large German shepherds, playing with them with a rope toy; several more of him sleeping in various locations -- “He hated having his picture taken, when he was sleeping was one of the only opportunities,” explains Irina -- and two polaroids of him and Irina together at what Kala assumes is a movie theatre.

Then she notices a gap. She’s gone back in time to age sixteen, according to Irina, but the pictures after this show Wolfgang significantly younger, perhaps twelve.

Kala glances at Irina with a question in her eyes and she notices Irina’s throat bob.

“Those were the worst years,” she whispers. “Anton beat him constantly and now I...well, I think it was because he found out that…” She shrugs miserably. “I have no idea how. I’m sure Wolfgang did everything to hide it. I…” She begins to cry again, lips trembling. “I should have seen...I-I--”

“You couldn’t have done anything,” says Kala.

“I could have done what I did yesterday years ago,” Irina says grimly. “I could have found a gun or I...I could have poisoned him…”

“If Wolfgang was younger, if he couldn’t protect you, I’m sure that Sergei would have found out and killed you,” whispers Kala.

“I know,” says Irina. “Maybe I should have let that happen…”

“Wolfgang would never have survived that,” Kala says gently. “He needed his mother. He still does.”

Irina starts to laugh humorlessly. “Oh no, no, you don’t understand how much of a burden I am...you don’t understand.”

“It’s not your fault,” says Kala. “Some people are born, um, without…”

“You don’t have to soften anything,” interrupts Irina. “I know what I am.”

Kala sighs and strokes Irina’s hair, then hugs her from the side and says, “Let’s keep looking, hm?” She picks up a picture of Wolfgang, about eleven, grinning with his face half-obscured by a huge birthday cake.

Irina softens and wipes her face, taking the picture from Kala. “Oh. He was so excited, I found extra money in one of my jackets so I was able to hide this from Anton and...he ate so much cake, and we went to the zoo, and I could barely keep up, he had too much energy from the sugar.” She chuckles and brings the picture closer. “Baby. He grew up far too fast.”

Kala nods solemnly. Irina puts the picture aside, then looks at the new one Kala has picked up -- it shows Wolfgang, a few years younger, sitting on the floor and playing with tiny soldier action figures. She tilts her head, brow knitted together in affection, and bites her bottom lip.

“Oh look, oh he was adorable,” she whispers.

Irina smiles gently and watches Kala. “It must be intense for you to see these pictures…”

“It is,” admits Kala.

“Here,” says Irina, digging through layers of pictures, collecting as she goes. She hands them to Kala. “These are some of my favorite ones.”

Kala studies a picture of Wolfgang as a toddler in overalls, proudly holding up a stuffed bear. She feels her heart leap, almost painful. Then she looks at a picture of him wandering in the autumn leaves in a diaper and she laughs. Then Irina hands her one of him as a newborn, swaddled in a soft green blanket, his eyes wide and curious.

“Oh my goodness,” says Kala quietly. “His eyes!”

“Yes, they were darker then,” says Irina, leaning closer to look at the picture. “Like sapphires, right?”

Kala nods. “Exactly, yes…”

Irina laughs. “He was very quiet as a baby and I thought he would grow out of that but apparently…”

“Mm, no,” says Kala, amused. She glances over her shoulder as she hears the door open, watching Wolfgang come in with a bag. She smiles at him and goes back to looking at the picture. “Oh, what a sweet thing.”

“He sneezed a lot and blew snot everywhere constantly,” says Irina, nodding.

“What are you talking about?” asks Wolfgang from the next room.

“You,” says Irina simply.

“Are you showing her embarrassing baby pictures?” he asks, the bag rustling and the smell of breakfast reaching them.

“No,” says Kala. “No, these are sweet…”

“Your son will look like that,” says Irina happily, taking the picture from Kala.

Kala watches her cautiously. Based on the sudden silence in the next room, Wolfgang overheard this and stopped moving in surprise. Kala breathes out slowly, glancing again at the picture, and her chest fills with fragile hope.

“Yes, he would,” she says with a smile.

There is the sound of a glass breaking and a mumbled “shit” from the next room. Kala giggles quietly and nods her head in that direction.

“I think we may have scared him,” she whispers to Irina, who nods and laughs conspiratorially while she leans her head against Kala’s.

Kala shakes her head after a moment and drinks her coffee, then brightens and sits up when Wolfgang comes into the room with a plate of breakfast. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment as he passes the plate to her, and then she glances down, blushing at the intensity in his eyes. She suspects Irina’s casual comment provoked a similar, stomach-swooping sensation in him as it did in her.

“Oh, but these are my favorite,” says Irina, interrupting Kala’s thoughts as Wolfgang walks out of the room to get the other plates.

Irina shows Kala a series of four polaroids of Wolfgang, about four, with ice cream on a park bench. The first shows him ecstatically eating it, the second shows him beaming at the camera with a smile so wide his eyes are nearly closed, the third shows him worriedly eating the rapidly-melting ice cream as quickly as possible, and the fourth shows the scoop of ice cream on his lap and the empty cone in his hand, his mouth open in disbelief and existential frustration.

Kala tilts her head back and laughs loudly, eyes closed. “Oh my God!”

“I remember that,” says Wolfgang as he returns. “I cried after that.”

“I got you more,” says Irina, laughing too. “Oh, your face.”

Wolfgang chuckles and shakes his head, leaning back and beginning to eat, putting a hand on Kala’s knee.

“Oh, poor baby,” murmurs Kala. “Oh no…” She nuzzles her nose against Wolfgang’s cheek and kisses the side of his mouth, adding after a moment, “Thank you for getting breakfast, I love frittatas…”

He nods, then glances at Irina to make sure she’s eating -- she’s chewing slowly on a piece of toast, still skimming through the contents of the trunk.

She smiles and takes out a delicate silver necklace with a charm shaped like an oak tree. “Oh, I stopped wearing this because...well, I didn’t want to lose it…” She hums, and then she reaches around Kala’s neck and fastens it. “You have it.”

Kala inhales, startled, and covers the charm with her hand. “Irina--”

“Please,” says Irina warmly.

She glances at Wolfgang for guidance and he shrugs slightly and nods.

“Thank you,” says Kala, moved.

“Silver looks pretty on your skin,” says Irina. “It belonged to my mother. Like Wolfgang’s ring belonged to my father.”

“Oh,” says Kala in surprise, glancing at Wolfgang’s hand on her knee.

“They’re from after the war,” murmurs Irina. “That tree was used as a symbol very often during reconstruction. It symbolizes...recovery, new roots.”

Kala and Wolfgang look at each other until Kala is forced to wipe her eyes to prevent tears from spilling. Everyone eats quietly for a few minutes, Kala occasionally feeding Wolfgang a strawberry or combing her fingers absentmindedly through his hair. She smiles at the new weight of the necklace and leans her head on Wolfgang.

When they’ve finished eating, he breathes out hard and reaches to touch his mother’s shoulder. “Ready?”

Irina nods reluctantly and gets to her feet. She begins to search for her shoes and coat and Kala gets up, about to copy her.

“You can’t go,” says Wolfgang.

“But...won’t Sergei suspect me?” she asks quietly.

“No,” says Wolfgang, assured. “It’s safer for you here.”

She nods, not wishing to remain alone anywhere, and hugs herself.

“I promise, and this won’t take long,” he says firmly, reaching her and kissing her.

She relaxes slightly, nods, and kisses him again. Then he squeezes her arm and departs with his mother, whose shoulders have sunken once more.

  
***

Wolfgang holds the door open for his mother as they exit the hotel. The streets are thick and white with snow and the sun is bright.

“Don’t say anything specific,” Wolfgang murmurs to her. 

She nods, gaze fixed. He glances at his watch and puts an arm around her while they walk toward the U-Bahn. As they turn a corner, he slows, startled by the sight of Will.

Will stares at him, then glances down and shakes his head rapidly, approaching. He takes Wolfgang’s shoulders firmly. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You couldn’t even call? I thought you and Kala were dead. Where is she? She went to--”

“She’s fine,” says Wolfgang. “Shit, I’m sorry. I meant to call last night but I fell asleep, I was exhausted.”

Will huffs and interjects a cursory, “Hi, Irina” before continuing in a clipped tone, “The police don’t think it was arson so you’re good there.”

Wolfgang squints. “How did you find me here?”

“The CIA cars have trackers,” says Will. “Thanks for stealing mine, by the way.”

“It was an emergency--”

“Yeah, keys?” asks Will, annoyed.

Wolfgang shakes his head. “In the hotel, room 307, make sure Kala knows it’s you.”

Will hesitates. “Kala’s here?”

Wolfgang looks sidelong at his mother and says, “Where else would she be?”

Will shrugs and rubs his tired eyes. “She chased after you, I thought you’d end up at your uncle’s place, thought he’d kill her…”

“My father didn’t go there first,” says Wolfgang, adding breathily, “we’re going there now.”

Will’s brow twitches. “Not Kala?”

“She and Ajay are done,” replies Wolfgang quietly.

Will nods unsurely and is about to speak, but Irina, as if she just noticed Will, yelps, “Why are you here?”

Will breathes in and he and Wolfgang exchange an apprehensive glance. Then Wolfgang shakes his head and rubs his mother’s arm.

“Will’s been helping me and Kala, mom,” he says. “He’s going to get us all an immunity deal, we’ll be able to leave.”

Irina stiffens. “What? I -- I thought Anton misunderstood something--”

“No, he caught us,” says Wolfgang.

Irina shakes her head. “But what if Sergei knows?”

“He doesn’t,” says Wolfgang. “We need to go.”

She sighs heavily and touches her fingers under her eyes to collect tears. Wolfgang watches her for a moment, wondering distantly when a day will pass without a storm. Will looks at him dubiously, communicating the fragility of the immunity deal now that Anton is dead. Wolfgang shakes his head, expressing the desire to talk later, and Will nods.

“Take care of yourself, Wolfgang,” he mutters, brushing past them on the sidewalk. “Nice to see you, Irina.”

Wolfgang shakes his head slightly when his mother looks at him in question and they continue to walk. He meant to call Will immediately after burning the house down, but Kala kissed him, precluding any distraction or interruption.

He’s not yet convinced that her feelings are more than recognition for his apparent kindness or vigilance. He’s concerned that her feelings and her actions are responsive rather than proactive and he’s sure that after years of being with a man like Ajay, she feels she owes him something physical for his good treatment of her.

As much as he wants to be with her, he’s grateful for her patience and deliberation; the last thing he wants is to sleep with her and find out that she only opened her body to him out of thanks. Still, the promise of tonight weighs heavily and it’s difficult to keep himself under control despite the fractious circumstances. He lights a cigarette to distract himself from thinking about watching her recline on his bed, naked, legs open to urge him to her.

He exhales audibly at this thought and he adjusts himself discreetly in his pants.

“What?” asks Irina.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, adding, “distracted, sorry.”

“Hm, why?” she asks. “Because I mentioned children? I know you haven’t been together long but--”

“No,” he says shortly. “I want to think about what to say to my uncle.”

“I’ll be quiet,” she mumbles.

He’s found Kala attractive since he saw her, though this was secondary to her bravery and intensity; now, however, having touched her and kissed her, he’s desperate to admire her physically and convey his astonishment. He wants to hear her shout while her nails dig into his skin...he wants most of all to slip his cock into her for the first time and feel her tense around him. He can tell from Kala’s touch that he makes her wet, that she’s close to abandoning all hesitation. His mind lingers for a moment on her plum-colored lips, imagining them around his cock, and he shuts his eyes quickly as if this will interrupt the image. He tries to focus on the potential holes to fall into in the conversation with Sergei -- his mother is prone to spontaneous, hysterical confessions, and he needs to be alert for the warning signs -- but his mind is inundated with tawny skin, sugar lips, and inky, corkscrew hair.

He’s sure he loves this woman because his desire for her transcends her appearance; her skin is not just skin, her lips not merely lips, and her hair touches him beyond the ability to tangle his hands in it.

They reach the U-Bahn and go downstairs and wait only a moment before the train arrives. Wolfgang extinguishes his cigarette and sits across from his mother in silence, watching the lights play in the tunnel as the train hurtles forward. He glances at the ring on his middle finger, thinking of the necklace on Kala’s chest; he noticed, when his mother fastened it on her, that her pulse fluttered.

“What do you think of Kala?” he asks before he can stop the words.

Irina perks up and smiles. “I love her.”

“Yeah, I --” He breathes out and shakes his head very slightly. “I do too.”

“You deserve someone like her,” says Irina. “Someone soft, who gives you what you want…and she isn’t stupid, like most people her age. She won’t take you for granted.” Irina pauses. “She’s divorcing him?”

Wolfgang nods. “I think so.”

“Will you marry her--”

“Mom, I don’t know,” he says quietly, adding, “but I want to be with her.”

“More-- more than you did with Will?”

“Yes,” he admits. “I won’t cut her off.”

“Good,” murmurs Irina.

They ride in silence for the next few moments and the train rises above ground, parallel to the cars for a moment. Wolfgang watches as passersby, tiny gray blurs, fight the snow, as the wheels of cars and scooters struggle. His father is dead, and all he wants is a night, and a lifetime, with Kala; no strings pull at him, no ghost of attachment or biological connection taunt him. He feels unweighted, impatient for the next act of his life. He feels that his years from twelve to twenty-two have been an intermission, a corruption of his true self.

Kala, only Kala, made him remember who he is and what he wants.

The train returns underground, then stops, and Wolfgang nudges Irina and they go out. They reach the Bogdanow Manor moments later, Irina shivering, though Wolfgang is unsure if this is motivated by fear or cold.

“Only talk if Sergei asks you,” says Wolfgang quietly. “If you have to, tell him that he hit you, that you stayed out last night, that you were scared, that he must have left the stove on or dropped a cigarette…”

Irina nods, breath unsteady, and regards the gate to the house like a monster’s toothy mouth. Wolfgang dispassionately presses the intercom buzzer.

“It’s Wolfgang,” he says.

The gate opens. He walks through it with his mother, a hand on his side to comfort her; the gray stones loom and when they reach the door it swings open unprompted.

Sergei stands before them, eyes wild, a large glass of scotch in his hand; his expression is frenzied, as if his features were clay and a great flood overtook and distorted them.

“My brother,” he hisses, spit flying. “My brother…”

Irina and Wolfgang stand cold, unspeaking.

“Where have you been?” asks Sergei.

Wolfgang breathes out harshly and sheds the third cigarette of the day. “Met a girl.”

Sergei’s mouth curls and he looks at Irina. “And where were you?”

“He hit me,” Irina says listlessly, as if reading from a script. “And I left for the night.”

“No,” says Sergei, and the word comes out thick, harsh, as if he chewed on it. “No. One of you did this.”

Wolfgang meets his gaze without expression, then pushes past him in the door, shielding Irina as she follows him. Sergei stiffens in rage and stalks inside after them into the den. Wolfgang stops, unprepared for the sight that follows -- all of his uncle’s men, Elke, and inexplicably, Lila, are gathered. He briefly meets Lila’s eyes and notices her jaw tense.

“The last to show up,” snarls Sergei, gesturing at Wolfgang and Irina as he pours more scotch. “His own son, his own wife…”

“Why is everyone here?” asks Wolfgang quietly.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” asks Sergei, turning. “Your father is dead.”

“Do we know it’s him?” mutters Wolfgang.

Sergei’s brow twitches. “I assume you saw the news.”

Wolfgang nods.

“Then you saw that one of the only remaining items was his necklace,” says Sergei.

Wolfgang shrugs. “I didn’t watch long.”

Elke approaches slowly -- she’s wearing a loose dress, no makeup, and her hair is a mess of frizz and flyaways. She hugs Irina, then Wolfgang.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry too,” mumbles Irina, adding, “I’m sorry, Sergei, I’m sorry for your loss…”

“It is your loss too,” snarls Sergei.

Irina nods dully. Wolfgang puts an arm protectively around her.

“You’re very calm,” says Sergei, a vein pulsing, the ice clinking in his glass.

“What did you expect?” asks Wolfgang in a low, bitter tone. “You know what he was.”

Sergei casts his eyes to the floor, mouth trembling in rage, body stiff; Wolfgang assumes he is restraining himself from a physical response to these words.

“I see,” says Sergei through gritted teeth. “I see now. You will, at the very least, drink to him with me.”

He turns and pours two glasses of scotch and hands one each to Wolfgang and Irina, who eyes the smoke-colored liquor apprehensively. Wolfgang drinks his serving before Sergei has a chance to toast and looks coldly at him.

Sergei’s jaw clenches but he drains his glass regardless. Irina sets her glass aside.

“Drink it,” growls Sergei.

“Sergei,” whispers Elke.

Sergei picks up the glass and shoves it into Irina’s hands with enough force that it sloshes over her. She lifts the glass to her lips, shaking, and drinks. Wolfgang watches her expression cautiously -- her eyes are lit with the same fury as they were last night. He moves his hand along the top of her shoulders to warn her not to speak.

“This was no accident,” whispers Sergei. “No, no, I refuse to believe it...”

Wolfgang pours himself more scotch. “The police found no evidence of arson.”

“The police,” seethes Sergei. “Shame on you. Fuchs, possibly Bohm...someone did this.”

Wolfgang takes a long drink, dreading the day of speculation. He knows his uncle will always return to the suspicion that he or his mother is responsible. Sergei is aware it is unfair to expect true grief, as he is aware of the violence and neglect Anton inflicted. Wolfgang is sure that Sergei knows, though he would be unable to admit it without conceding that his brother was an evil man, that he and his mother had more reason than anyone to murder Anton.

He glances around the room again, at the grey, unsmiling faces of Sergei’s men. He notes a sub-machine gun in the crook of Nikitovich’s arm and one in Steiner’s, a glock-34 in Makarov’s belt and in Georgiy’s; the others are similarly armed, as if preparing for an assault. Then he looks at Lila, who is leaning against an antique desk, wearing a translucent black dress and scowling with crimson lips. He frowns slightly.

“Where is Kapoor?” he asks his uncle.

“Looking for his wife,” says Sergei impatiently.

Wolfgang slowly nods, then glances to the side as Lila approaches him.

“I see that my timing was not ideal,” she says in a silvery voice. “We need to talk.”

“You will wait,” snarls Sergei.

“I have waited,” hisses Lila. “I have waited all night and through this exhausting morning. I have no love for Anton.” She turns to Wolfgang. “You will talk to me now.”

He nods, watching his uncle sidelong, and he turns to leave the room with Irina and Lila. Sergei grips his shoulder from behind and leans close.

“You’ve never understood where your allegiances lie."

Wolfgang’s lips curl, thinking of Kala and his mother, and he exits the room. Lila walks parallel to him, with Irina slightly behind, and he notices Lila smirk coldly out of the corner of his eye.

“Morta la serpe, spento il veleno,” she murmurs.

Wolfgang exhales hard through his nose and matches her smirk. “You underestimate the consequences of this.”

She glances at him. “Then kill more snakes.”

They climb the stairs and go into Wolfgang’s room. Irina looks at them nervously, unsettled by their brief exchange. Wolfgang directs her to sit in a chair overlooking the courtyard and he shuts the door. He’s about to ask Lila if she would like a drink when his cat trots out of the bathroom and meows imploringly as it rubs against his legs.

Lila narrows her eyes. Wolfgang doesn’t remark, crossing the room to pull a can of tuna from under the bar. He peels the lid back and sets the can on the floor for his cat, who sits back on its haunches and eats rapidly.

He stands up and lifts a bottle of vodka from the bar. Lila nods and he pours two glasses.

“Dohkolov has become a problem,” says Lila after she drinks.

“He won’t survive this week,” replies Wolfgang, resting against the counter. “Neither will Kapoor.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” says Lila. “I have a girl in St. Petersburg. She’s close with Dohkolov, and she said that something has unnerved him. Clearly Kapoor did not convince him that coming to Berlin would be in his best interest. I believe he suspected that Kapoor was working for you, or he doubted Kapoor’s ability to protect him once here.”

“Why do you say that?” asks Wolfgang.

“Because he has asked for Kapoor’s force in Mumbai to come to Berlin. I don’t know if he asked that to prove Kapoor is loyal or simply because he wanted more men,” says Lila. “But we would be fools to be unprepared.”

Wolfgang shakes his head. “Why would Dohkolov come with more men? Why not stay in St. Petersburg?”

Lila tilts her head, smirking. “Why do you think?”

Wolfgang’s eyes flicker and his brows twitch slightly. “He’ll come here to kill my uncle.”

“Yes,” says Lila simply. “I believe he’s tired of your family. I imagine you can sympathize.”

“Let him come,” says Wolfgang, shrugging. “I’ll be gone, so will Felix, my mother.”

Lila watches him, perplexed, and silently drinks.

“The immunity deal relied on my father being alive,” he says quietly, so Irina can’t overhear. “I’m leaving as soon as possible.”

“Where to?” asks Lila, one eyebrow arched.

He considers, then murmurs, “Napoli?”

She exhales and meets his gaze with flashing, amused eyes. “I can ask a favor, if you do one for me. Stay here long enough to ensure Dohkolov’s death, and Kapoor’s. I do not trust any other Bogdanow to accomplish that.”

He nods.

Lila hums in thought, glancing at the floor. “I worry that Kapoor will escape to St. Petersburg soon.”

“He won’t go without his wife,” says Wolfgang.

“And where is she?” asks Lila.

Wolfgang raises his eyebrows and finishes his drink. “In my hotel room.”

Lila tongues over her bottom lip. “You are not a smart man.”

“Men don’t tend to be,” he replies.

“No, but you are particularly stupid,” she tells him, continuing, “Be prepared for five of Kapoor’s men and at least as many of Dohkolov’s.”

“The police will be involved too,” he replies. “And the Americans.”

She nods. “I expected them to be.”

“Do you want me to leave my uncle alive?” asks Wolfgang.

Lila shrugs, crossing the room to set her glass on the bar. She leans on it next to him.

“I am willing to receive my shipments from the next King. St. Petersburg will be in disarray soon and Moscow will be the King’s only option.” She flashes a small smirk at him. “Patricide gave you a taste for more?”

“My mother killed him,” Wolfgang says quietly.

Lila’s expression grows abruptly steely and solemn. She nods.

Wolfgang shakes his head slightly, inhaling, and sets his drink aside.

“Chto poseyesh', to i pozhnosh',” he says with no humor.

***

Kala, uncomfortably alone in the hotel room, continued to look through pictures and belongings in Irina’s trunk. She turned the heat up, ordered tea, and still found herself unusually chilly. She suspects that Wolfgang’s absence explains this; now that’s she’s kissed him, now that she knows he shares her feelings, she finds it painful to be apart. She suspects the next week will be the most difficult, and her heart tells her that it must get worse before it gets better.

She worries for Wolfgang, for Irina, and for Will; her life has taught her that sacrifices are often required; loss is often the price of a better life. She knows nothing truly good or worthwhile exists without pain, though she questions why the pain must be so great. She knows she would not have met Wolfgang if her family had not died, but she hesitates to say this exchange was worth it. It seems a heavy price, despite her surety that she’ll love this man the rest of her life.

She feels that Wolfgang has suffered too much too, even if he is rewarded with a long, happy life in the future. She holds up a picture of him, age seven or eight, looking through the holes of two bagels and smiling for the camera. She caresses his pixelated face and adjusts her position on the couch. She feels, though she can’t explain how, that his heart is pure, that he would never have become the criminal he is out of anything but obligation and circumstance.

She sighs and sets the picture aside, drinking her tea. She wants to feel the joy and relief she felt last night again, but it seems that is impossible when she is alone -- she wonders, even after they escape, if she will ever feel pure happiness apart from him.

If they escape, she reminds herself.

She picks up another photograph, this one of him as a toddler, and manages to smile. She suspects Irina’s comment about their son startled Wolfgang, but noticed a distinct warmth in his eyes when he came back into the room. She feels an unusual urge to be generous with this man, to give him her heart, her body, a family with no expectation of reciprocation. It is enough for her to love him, though she knows that he will be equally generous with her, equally selfless.

She hums affectionately at the picture, then glances up as the lock clicks open on the door. She frowns -- she didn’t expect Wolfgang and Irina to return so quickly -- and cautiously sits up.

Then she flings the blanket off of her, on her feet, fists clenched, gasping. It’s Ajay. Her first thought is not how he found her or what he’ll do; her first thought is of the trunk. It implies that Anton’s death was premeditated, that steps had been taken before the fire. It also, she realizes with dread, is proof of her affair with Wolfgang.

She supposes she should be grateful that she won’t die without having kissed Wolfgang, without having seen these pictures, without having one pure moment of joy and intimacy with him. Her gun is in the bedroom, much too far to reach, and she prays that Wolfgang will come back in time to save her.

Then her breath fails -- four of Ajay’s men come into the hotel room -- and she prays for the very opposite.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers. “What is happening--”

Ajay coolly adjusts the band of his watch and tilts his head. “I could ask you the same.”

“I’ve told you already, I’m leaving you--”

“No, you are going to St. Petersburg,” replies Ajay. “Where you will see a doctor. A normal woman does not try to shoot her husband.”

“I was defending myself,” she snarls.

“Be grateful that I haven’t come here to kill you,” he says casually, approaching her. “I’m giving you a second chance, though you don’t deserve one.”

She fights an urge to frantically stuff all the pictures in the trunk. All she can do is hope that he does not look down, that he does not question the presence of this trunk. Perhaps he’ll think it’s hers. Perhaps he’ll be too focused on her face.

“Pack your things and--” He stops himself, gaze caught on an ashtray with a spent cigarette in it, then on three breakfast plates.

Kala trembles, starting to cry, and whispers, “Ajay…”

He slowly reaches his hand out and picks up one of the photos. She isn’t sure which one it is, but she knows all the photos in the trunk are of Wolfgang.

“How long?” breathes Ajay.

“Nothing has happened--”

“Don’t you dare lie to me!” he screams, throwing the picture and grabbing her.

“I swear!" she pleads, sobbing. "I swear, Ajay, please I'm only here as his friend! He likes men!"

Ajay snorts. "I saw him leave the party last month with a woman."

"It was for appearances in front of his family--"

He slaps her in the face and pushes her so she falls onto the coffee table. She cries out in pain as the sharp edge connects with her back and puts her hands instinctively up so he can't hit her in the face again. He spits on her.

"You should be grateful your parents aren't alive to see this," he hisses.

"I swear nothing happened," mumbles Kala, voice choked and thick.

He kneels and grips her shirt. “You let a dirty faggot put his dirty faggot dick in you, didn’t you?” He shoves her. “Disgusting, worthless bitch.”

He stands up and unzips his pants, then begins to urinate on the pictures.

“No!” screeches Kala, standing and shoving him as hard as she can.

He stumbles and lashes his hands out at her, throwing her again onto the table so that the glass shatters. She gasps and yelps as the shards cut into her arm and her back. Ajay steps over and twists his fist in her hair, dragging her by it away from the table. She cries out, clawing at his hand, trying to make him release her. Acid bubbles in her stomach as her fear grows.

“Please!” she shouts. “Please, please, you loved me once, you can’t kill me--”

He wrenches her to her feet as they pass his men near the door. He shoves her into the bedroom and slams the door, then begins to work his pants down. Kala’s throat tightens and she finds herself unable to move, as if her blood is sluggish, as if she’s losing consciousness. Tears course over her cheeks and she slowly shakes her head.

“Please just kill me,” she whispers mournfully. “Please, not this, just--”

“Killing you is more than you deserve,” he spits. “No, I’m not going to kill you, not yet. You’re coming to St. Petersburg.”

He grabs her closer and his face contorts. She tilts her head and shakes it imploringly. He gestures at the bed.

“Made lots of memories in this bed?” he asks, then tears at the tie of her robe. “I’ll give you a new one…”

She tries to push him away but he digs his fingers into her flesh and shoves her onto the bed; she tries to get up but he holds her down, and she tries desperately to keep her legs together but her strength is nothing compared to his.

“Please,” she whimpers as he rips away her shorts. “Please, I’ll do anything, you can hit me--”

He puts his hand firmly over her mouth and she bites him. He slaps her the face and she lays still for a second, head to the side, hair obscuring her vision. She breathes hard, searching her mind in desperation for a solution, searching the room for a weapon she can reach. He’s done this to punish her before and she knows that fighting makes it worse, but she can’t help herself now. She refuses to let this happen in this room, on this day, after only a few moments of happiness with Wolfgang. She refuses to let him poison this.

She stretches her leg out and kicks him as hard as she can muster; he grunts in pain, then lifts her and slams her against the headboard. Her mind swims and she blinks, finding herself unable to focus, vision blurred and spotted with white dots. She tries to sit up and kick him again, but finds that her muscles have no strength -- or the blow to her head rendered her paralyzed, powerless.

The room swirls in her vision and she drifts until she feels a burning pain in between her legs; she tries again to sit up, but Ajay grips her throat and thrusts into her aggressively.

She stares at the wall, dizzy, and chokes on a sob.

After, Ajay drags her out of the hotel room with all her things. His men guard her on all sides. She stumbles, crying, astray and unstable; she feels like she is in a dream, like she wants her legs to move but they won’t. Ajay continuously pushes her to keep up and when she falls he kicks her.

When they reach the lobby of the hotel, Kala lets out a soft scream and covers her mouth. The attendants at the front desk, several guests, and many employees lie dead. Police pace the lobby and paramedics assist those who are not yet dead.

Ajay shoves Kala in front of him and keeps her close.

“Auf den Boden!” Ajay shouts. “Get down!”

The paramedics do this, but the police all aim and approach. Kala’s eyes widen at the sight of Diego, and his eyes flash, mirroring hers. They lock gazes, both stunned, and Kala mouths desperately, “Help me!”

Ajay locks his arm around Kala’s neck. “I have a civilian, don’t shoot!” He puts his gun to her head. “Shoot any of us, and I will shoot her!”

Kala begins to gasp for breath when Ajay releases the safety on his gun. She fights chest pains and an instinctive urge to faint and walks stiffly with Ajay as they pass Diego.

“Please!” she mouths at him.

He gives the smallest, surest nod.

  
***

Wolfgang has just replenished his and Lila’s drinks and pulled out a large pad of paper to work through the details of Dohkolov’s assassination with her when his phone rings. It’s Will, and he nearly ignores it. But at the last moment, he answers.

“What?” he asks.

“Wolfgang, listen to me, Kapoor has Kala and they’re going to an airfield. D’s following them and the police are trying to put up a barricade but it doesn’t look good. I need you to call him.”

Wolfgang’s heart clenches and he says frantically, “What--”

“There was a shooting at the hotel, he found her somehow, you have to intercept them in case the police fail. His number is 0151-21234567, do you have that?”

“Yes,” says Wolfgang, writing it.

“Okay,” replies Will. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have a reason to say that yet,” says Wolfgang brusquely, hanging up and taking several magazines of bullets from under the counter of the bar. He adds them to the magazine pouches on his belt and clips on two grenades. He looks fiercely at Lila. “Kapoor has Kala, I have to go--

Her nostrils flare and she takes a glock strapped to the outside of her thigh. “I’ll come.”

Wolfgang glances at his mother, who is distracted with his cat, and then grabs the paper and rushes out of his room with Lila. They run down the stairs to the courtyard and exit undetected, throwing themselves into his car. He throws the crumpled paper at Lila.

“Call that number,” he says, punching the gas.

She does, switching it to speaker. Diego answers, “Wolfgang, that you?”

“Yes, where are you?” he asks.

“Sächsische Straße, headed towards Grunewald,” says Diego. “There’s an airfield there, we’re assuming that’s where they’re headed.”

“I know where that is,” says Wolfgang. “What happened?”

“Appears Kapoor held up the hotel to get keys to Kala’s room,” explains Diego. “I’d guess he found her by bullying the taxi driver that took her there considering he was found dead a little over an hour ago.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” snarls Wolfgang, hitting the wheel. “Fuck…”

“Look, you left her in a locked hotel room, nothing else you could have done,” says Diego.

Wolfgang knows, no matter what plays out, that guilt will overwhelm him later; but he has room only for rage in this moment. He speeds towards Sächsische Straße.

“Turned on Paulsborner,” says Diego, adding, “oh, fuck, they’re getting on the freeway…”

“Why don’t you have a barricade up?” asks Wolfgang.

“We’re trying,” says Diego impatiently.

Wolfgang listens to the police static and sirens on the other line; he imagines Kala in Ajay’s car, overwrought and terrified, and his chest seizes up, cold.

“How did she look?” he asks quietly.

“Bad,” admits Diego. “Out of it.”

Wolfgang has only experienced a visceral, primal urge to watch the life leave someone’s eyes once in his life -- he wanted to see the life leak from Anton like water swirling down a drain. Now he requires the same with Ajay. He won’t be satisfied until he sees him die in agony and he won’t be satisfied if he isn’t the one responsible.

He hurtles up an onramp onto the Autobahn and notices the police vanguard behind, perhaps a thousand meters.

“I’m in front of you,” he tells Diego, and then he spots Ajay’s car, a silver Jaguar SUV.

He sees Kala’s frizzy hair in the middle back, surrounded by men; he knows his clunky BMW does not compare, but he does not have the patience to wait for the police.

“Hold on,” he tells Lila.

She stares at him coldly.

He tilts his head to suggest she’ll regret if she doesn’t, and then he presses the gas to floor, comes even with Ajay’s car, and jerks his own car into the front of it. Both cars spin. The seatbelt burns Wolfgang’s chests and the airbags explode. After a moment of screeching rubber and smoke, the cars rock to a stop.

Wolfgang rockets out of his seat and breaks the window of the backseat with the butt of his gun. He shoots the men on either side of Kala in the head, in quick concession, and blood splatters on her ashen, petrified face.

“Unlock it, get out,” he instructs her.

She shoves the door open and crawls over the dead man to her left. She falls out of the car, into his arms, and immediately sobs. Her face is purple and green with bruises and she seems unsteady, as if she was hit hard in the head. He hugs her, breathing out, eyes wet.

“Fuck, thank God,” he mutters.

She sobs violently and clutches her fingers in his shirt.

The police cars approach, squealing to a stop. Diego launches out of his car, pistol extended, in riot gear.

“Ma’am!” he yells. “Behind me, please, ma’am!”

Then the silver Jaguar takes off, leaking fluid, and Diego swears loudly. Three police cars shoot after the Jaguar in pursuit.

“Ma’am!” Diego shouts at Kala.

Lila gets elegantly out of the wrecked BMW and shoots the gun out of Diego’s hand. She throws herself behind the concrete median to avoid a hail of bullets from the officers, then throws a chain over the side of the elevated highway. Wolfgang glances with a cursory apology at Diego.

“Go with her!” he shouts at Kala.

“Wolfgang--”

“Trust me,” he says.

She sobs and shakes her head, eyes frantic, but she follows Lila as she descends the chain to the streets below. Lila shoots the tire of the first car she sees when she lands. The car spins and crashes against a parked car on the side of the road. A woman gets out, horrified, and puts her hands up.

“Keys,” demands Lila, scarlet nails outstretched.

The woman, gasping and crying, hands them over and then she runs. Kala gets in the backseat, numb, and stares at the strange, red-lipped woman in the driver’s seat.

Meanwhile on the freeway, Wolfgang tosses his gun to the ground and lifts his hands above his head. He walks slowly towards the officers, head down.

“Stay where you are!” warns Diego.

He lifts his gaze. He smirks willfully and lowers his hands, and then he throws himself into the driver’s seat of Diego’s car and speeds away as bullets graze the metal siding and break the back window.

His only hope of stopping a plane take off is in his trunk -- an RPG, but he couldn’t walk up to a police car with that over his shoulder. He speeds after the silver Jaguar, far ahead, pursued by the police. He knows he should have gone with Kala, he knows he should have let the police shoot Ajay down, but Ajay’s death is personal to him.

The police radio fizzes and a voice comes over it.

“Wolfgang!” shouts Will, presumably in his office, harried and in disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing?"

Wolfgang shuts the transmitter off and presses the pedal to the floor, coming even with the three police cars which went after Ajay. Other drivers pull aside and some get out, staring as the police race past them. Wolfgang tails Ajay’s car as the Autobahn comes even with the earth below. He glances ahead at an airfield, swearing, and crashes the police car through a chain link fence, sliding to a squealing stop on the runway.

He takes a gun from his boot. He knows he only has seconds before the cops catch up, before Ajay boards the small jet in the center of the runway. It’s yards away and he sprints, but before he can lift his gun and aim at the engines, the plane begins to wheel down the runways in the opposite direction. He chases it, shooting, but it lifts off after only a moment and the sirens whine in his ears.

Disappointment boils in his stomach and he gauges the time it will take to return to the car. Then he grips his gun and sprints. He reaches the car just as the police arrive and he speeds away from them on the runway, then careens out of a gate onto a road. He glances over his shoulder and sees that, inexplicably, the police have turned away except for two cars. He frowns and flicks the transmitter back on.

“--terrorist attack in central Tegel, code 314--”

He brightens, almost laughing. He suspects this is Lila's work. He turns down a road that grows too narrow to continue in the car. He jumps out and runs between buildings, then lifts himself into a window before the police can see where he disappeared to.

He turns around in an unfamiliar kitchen, grateful to find it empty, and catches his breath while leaning on the counter. Then he searches for a phone and calls Felix.

Thirty minutes later, he and Felix pull alongside the Bogdanow mansion.

“Shit, man,” mumbles Felix. “That was some Deadpool shit on the Autobahn, you sure the police won’t--”

“The police never come here,” says Wolfgang assuredly. “They know they can’t.”

Felix nods unsurely. “So you and Kala--”

“I can’t talk about it right now,” mutters Wolfgang, exhausted. But then he nods. “Yeah. Me and Kala.”

“I fucking _knew_ it,” mumbles Felix as he warms his hands over the heater. “Fuck.”

“I want him dead,” says Wolfgang quietly. “But he’s in St. Petersburg, I’ll never see him again.”

He and Felix don’t speak for a moment. Then he shakes his head slightly in the gathering dusk. He called Lila after Felix and directed her to take Kala here, to park on the street and slip covertly into his room by climbing the ivy. Lila assured him she would do this. He heaves open the door. Kala is inside, safe, waiting to be held.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he mutters at Felix.

Felix nods worriedly and Wolfgang slides past the hedges, over the snow, and up the icy vines on the side of the house. He taps gently on the window and hears a rush of feet on the floor inside. Kala throws open the window and he lifts himself inside; he’s barely steadied himself before she throws her arms around him and presses as close as possible.

The guilt he was sure he would feel hits him, an avalanche, and he tightens his hands in her dress and hugs her snugly.

“Fuck, Kala, Kala…”

“Wolfgang,” she sobs.

“I’m sorry--”

“No, you had to leave and I was stupid, I left my gun out of reach...”

He pulls back. He notices his mother asleep in an armchair; he sees that Kala (and Lila, he assumes) have moved his dresser in front of the door for an extra layer of protection. He glances at Kala and sees that, even in the fading light, that Ajay beat her badly. He can tell from her stiffness that she hurts everywhere, deeply. He shakes his head, teeth clenched.

“I’ll kill him,” he murmurs as his thumbs move on her arms.

“I would never ask you t--”

“I will,” says Wolfgang solemnly, a promise. He breathes out. “Kala, I’m sorry...” He cups her head gently and breathes out. “He hit you hard…”

More tears spill and she nods. He notes a bowl of soup by the bed and suspects that Lila heated one of the old cans of chicken noodle he kept under the bar before she left. He senses, from Kala's scent and the softness of her skin, that she took a shower just before he arrived. And he notices the bed is turned down, a candle is lit. It seems she did as much as she could to heal herself before he arrived.

“You don’t have to be okay,” he mumbles.

“But we said tonight we would--”

“After today?” he breathes. “I don’t care about that. I care about you. Fuck, I thought I lost you.”

She nods slowly, then bends her head and nods more rapidly, crying loudly and listing against him. She opens her mouth and sobs, shaking, and he rubs her back.

“Here,” he says quietly, moving to the bed with her.

His chest is heavy with thoughts of his mother; he knows only so much can be endured before Kala’s mind breaks like Irina's did, before fiction and delusion become more appealing than real life.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, knowing the answer.

“Yes,” she whispers.

He nods and pours vodka into two glasses. He drains his and adds more, then hands her a glass. The afternoon comes back as a blur of squalling tires and gunshots.

“Are you safe?” she asks as he slides next to her in bed.

“No one knows we’re here,” he tells her. “Not even my uncle.”

She nods.

“Your face,” he mumbles.

Kala looks down. “I know.”  
  
He rubs his hand over the side of her head, rough skin catching in her hair. He breathes out and shakes his head. “I thought he would kill you if he found you.”

“I wish he had,” she says, the words falling from her lips unbidden, heavy.

Wolfgang’s brow twitches.

“He did something else,” explains Kala dispiritedly. “I -- I wanted to be with you tonight but I’m sore and--”

Wolfgang’s lips and nose twitch like an angry dog and he stiffens. As soon as Ajay is dead, he’ll take Kala to Napoli and worship her until she remembers what she is worth; he’ll throw himself on his knees if he has to.

“I’ll never touch you when you don’t want me to,” he says in a low, earnest tone. “And I’ll never hit you.”

“I know--”

“Never,” he insists. “I know what it’s like.”

She sniffles, nods, and presses closer. She slides her fingertips along his jaw and his cheek, eyes molten and trusting, and he hugs her as she begins to cry again. She shifts into his lap, melting into him, onto him, and he rubs her back as she sobs. He buries his face in her hair and screws his eyes shut. This woman is medicine, salvation, but she is more than that; he doesn’t love her for what she gives to him, but for what she awakens in him. For the first time in his life, he feels like a good man.

She shakes against him and clenches her fingers around his shoulders. Then she sits up slightly and he sees a bright clarity in her eyes.

“I love you,” she whispers. “Oh, how I love you…”

The hours together in Will’s office, the stolen glances in the hallway of the mansion, the silent but affectionate car rides; the fierce protection of each other, the nights falling asleep together; last night, this morning, kisses and pure promises...it all collides, waves crashing together.

“I love you,” he says without hesitation or regret.

“I love you,” she repeats.

He touches her lips. “I love you. Always.”

She shakes her head, crying again, and echoes, “Always.”

They kiss gently, then deeply, and Kala pulls away with a loud sniffle, touching his chin, his cheeks. It isn’t an affair, a betrayal...it is a triumph. This is the moment she crests the summit of the mountain, the moment the sun overtakes the horizon; this is winter turning to spring, and like the snow on the slopes, her worry and attachment fades. She is as free as the flowing snowmelt, as wild as rapids close to the coast.

She thumbs his cheek, then finishes her drink; he mirrors her and squeezes her waist, but she moans in pain. He quickly withdraws his hand.

“I--”

She interrupts his apology. “Kiss them?” she asks, flushed. “Kiss me everywhere I hurt…”

He looks at her through heavy-lidded eyes and slowly unties her robe. Underneath he finds lace lingerie but this doesn’t affect him the way her warm skin does. He spreads his fingers over her tummy, just under her breasts, and finds a soft purple mark to kiss. She relaxes, hands above her head, and he kisses each mark as her robe falls away -- shoulders, ribs, the inside of her elbow, her wrist. He feels her sink into the mattress and he cautiously lifts forward and presses his lips to hers.

She responds enthusiastically, her tongue soft against his as he sucks it slightly deeper into his mouth. She moans and mumbles, “Oh, your lips…”

He feathers his fingers over her panties. “Where are the other bruises?”

She takes his hand and guides it high on her inner thigh. He kisses her here, resisting the urge to slide his tongue up, to tug her panties aside and flick at her folds; he wants to make her come so she sleeps easily, but he knows tonight is too heavy for making love. Still, he shifts higher. He feels her shiver.

Kala blushes, murmuring, “I could lie so you kiss me where I want you to.”

He smiles. “Then lie.”

Kala laughs, then shakes her head. She holds out her arm. “Here.”

He kisses her arm, then a mark he finds on her shoulder, then her collarbone. His stubble tickles and he’s agonizingly close to her mouth, but she resists. She presses her index finger to a small scar under his left eye, twitches her eyebrow, and kisses the scar.

They kiss hungrily after meeting eyes, and then he slides his lips over the crest of her breasts, then under them, moving lower to linger just above the lace edge of her panties.

“Do you want me to eat you out?” he murmurs.

She breathes in hard and runs her hand through his hair. She gently grins and this alone relaxes him.

“I want you to,” she admits in a whisper, “but not tonight. When I know we’re safe, when I know I won’t lose you…”

He nods and presses a soft kiss under her belly button, then trails upwards, lips on her ribs and in between her breasts; he tries to communicate his appreciation, and she communicates hers by lifting her hips and sliding gently against him. They both moan and they kiss intensely, gripping each other close. They stay like this, rocking softly; Kala grows slippery between her thighs, he grows hard; their lips slide and meld and their tongues explore; he finds her breasts under his hands, warm to the touch like peaches on a sunny tree.

“I’m sorry I keep making you wait,” she breathes.

He shakes his head. “I want you more than I want this.”

“I want this _with_ you,” she replies.

“I do too,” he says. “But not until you aren’t afraid.”

She nods. “Then kiss me. I’m not afraid of that.”

He nods and kisses her fiercely; she moans, body soft under his. Every touch replaces her pain; she knows he can’t erase it, she knows it will exist the rest of her life like a stubborn scar, but in moments like this it fades; in moments like this, his generosity and intensity mute the memories, though some are fresh.

“I love you, I love you,” she whispers.

“I love you,” he replies.

They kiss again, more softly, then shift onto their sides and stay close.


	8. It takes the pain from me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfgang reconciles his past. Kala finds the courage to make a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will respond to all previous comments tomorrow. I know I'm slow about that :/

* * *

  
_I'm invisible and magical_  
_If only for a moment_  
_A pure feeling_  
_I'm scared to control it_

Wolfgang tilts his head back as hot water courses over him. He closes his eyes, reflecting on the absurdity of crashing his car into a much larger one. His back is sore, potentially strained, and he has a melon-sized bruise on his shoulder from slamming into the door of the car. He breathes out slowly, stretching, and reaches for some soap.

He questions whether he’ll see Ajay again, whether he’ll have a chance to make him pay. His gut clenches every time he thinks of Kala alone in that hotel room, and again when he thinks of her dispassionate response that she is used to treatment like that. He scrubs his face and lifts it to the water, body tight. He felt no serious need to see his father suffer. He felt confident, despite his fragile belief in anything supernatural, that God, the universe, the other departed souls would ensure his father’s suffering. But on Kala’s behalf, he demands Ajay’s suffering at his own hands, or at hers. He won’t be satisfied with anything else.

He lingers a moment longer under the water, then clicks the faucet off and steps out, reaching for a towel. He glances out of the door of the bathroom and sees that Kala and his mother are still asleep. He pauses at the sight of his mother, just remembering her, and lifts his brows slightly at the memory of last night. Then he shakes his head slightly, unsurprised that he was so absorbed in Kala that he forgot his mother was present, and begins to dry off.

A moment later he dresses and passes through the bedroom, intent on making Kala a cup of tea and finding her pain medicine. He expects to find his uncle up, pacing, and sure enough as he walks past the den, Sergei addresses him.

“Wolfgang,” he says quietly, a slight bite to his voice.

Wolfgang recognizes the tone -- it surfaces whenever Sergei is suspicious, annoyed, or feeling particularly superior. It usually precedes a lecture.

“I don’t have time to talk to you right now,” replies Wolfgang.

Sergei rises from his desk and approaches slowly, musing. “I suppose you had a good reason for leading the police on a chase after Kapoor?”

Wolfgang’s nose twitches slightly in anger. “Be careful.”

Sergei’s facade breaks and he snarls, “What were you thinking--”

“Kapoor was working with Dohkolov,” interrupts Wolfgang loudly, out of patience with concealing this. “If you hadn’t blindly trusted a man that gave every indication of dishonesty--”

“Oh, enough,” says Sergei, holding up his hands. “I know what your initial reason for disliking him was, and Wolfgang, you cannot mistrust every man that beats his wife.”

“No?” asks Wolfgang, heated. “Why not? It proves he can’t be trusted with power.”

Sergei closes his eyes and starts to chuckle. “Oh, spare me--”

“Kapoor planned to bring Dohkolov here, to kill you and me, and to move the shipments from Mumbai through Fuchs or Böhm to St. Petersburg rather than Moscow--”

“And you know this because--”

Wolfgang grips Sergei’s shirt and shoves him backward, breaking into rapid Russian. “You stupid old fuck! Did you bother to monitor his phone? His accounts? Did you do any fucking recon? Fuck you. Don’t say another thing to me about good judgment. If this family survives, it will be because of me.” He scoffs and pushes him again. “King of Berlin? Get on your fucking knees now and save us all the trouble.”

Wolfgang steps back, then notices Kala in the doorway, a hand on her chest, eyes flashing nervously.

Sergei gestures at her and says shakily, “And I suppose she knew nothing about it?”

“Another thing about men who hit their wives,” replies Wolfgang, “they don’t tell them shit. Of course she knew nothing about it.”

Sergei starts towards Kala suspiciously. Wolfgang shoves him back.

“Touch her and you’ll join my father,” he says quietly, turning, leaving Sergei stunned.

He joins Kala and puts a protective arm around her as he guides her away from the den.

“What was that about?” whispers Kala.

Wolfgang takes a breath, still fiery, and murmurs, “I told him about Ajay and Dohkolov...he needed to know before Dohkolov comes here, and I couldn’t listen to him preach about what I did yesterday. I won’t let him near you.” He softens and glances at her, thumbing over her shoulder as they reach the kitchen. “How bad today?”

She shrugs gently. “I could use some medicine.”

“Figured, that’s what I was looking for,” he replies, letting her go and opening a cabinet.

When he turns back to her, a bottle of medicine in his hand, he notices she’s watching him with a look of apprehension. His brow twitches slightly in confusion.

She swallows and says carefully, “It’s strange to me how...gentle you can be with me and your mother when you’re capable of…” She breathes in rapidly. “Of that with your uncle.”

“You trust me, though?” he checks.

She smiles and nods. “More than anyone.”

He reaches and slides his hand along her arm, and she smiles more widely, stepping up to him to put her arms around his neck. She meets his eyes, warm and hopeful, and he puts his hand through her hair.

“Only a few more days,” he tells her.

“I know,” she replies quietly, adding, “What will happen with the police?”

He shakes his head. “My father is dead and Ajay is gone. We have to run.”

She nods. “Yes, that’s what I expected. Where?”

“Lila will find us a place in Napoli. She asked me to kill Ajay in exchange for that but she isn’t as harsh as she seems.” He shrugs. “I think she’s as tired of this as I am.”

“But if she insists?” worries Kala.

“We’ll find a place,” he replies, adding “I promise” when her eyes flicker.

She nods unsurely and whispers, “Okay.” She puts her hands on both sides of his face. “How are you? Did you hurt yourself in the crash?”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

He squeezes her arm and releases it, stepping away to slide the teapot over the burner and turn it on. She joins him at the stove, leans against him, and he hugs her from the side. She takes the medicine bottle from his hand, yawns, and examines it.

“Mm, I’ll sleep all day if I take one of these,” she informs him.

He shrugs. “That might be good for you.”

She nods. “Yes, I think so--”

They both look up as the door swings open, revealing Lila is a long leather coat and stilettos, looking characteristically spiritless and irritated.

“Talk to your boyfriend,” she says to Wolfgang.

Wolfgang narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“I need more information about the police’s approach,” she explains, then glances at Kala appreciatively. “Feeling better?”

Wolfgang glances in annoyance at Lila. Lila raises her dark brows unapologetically. Wolfgang shakes his head and takes the teapot off the stove as it begins to whistle.

“I’ll talk to Will,” he tells Lila, “if you stop looking at my girlfriend.”

“I’ll try,” says Lila, watching Kala, adding to Wolfgang, “You’re on the news. You’ll need to be very discreet.”

Wolfgang nods, taking a box of tea down from the cupboard. He glances at Kala, “You’ll be safe with Lila here and I won’t be gone long.”

She nods unsurely, pressing closer to him and surveying Lila. He puts teabags into two mugs and fills them with boiling water, then reaches into the fridge for milk. Kala watches him pour a glass and hand it to her with one of the pills from the medicine bottle. She frowns and he does too, confused by her expression.

“You always take medicine with milk,” he explains. “That way it doesn’t hurt your stomach.”

Kala raises her eyebrows and murmurs, “Why do I get the sense your mother told you that?”

Wolfgang looks at her for a moment, and then he nods and says, “Yeah, I’m an idiot.”

Kala softens, grins, and shakes her head. She takes him close in her arms.

“No you aren’t," she says and tilts her head. “Eggs. Real food. _That_ is how you don’t hurt your stomach.”

“God, you two are boring,” sighs Lila, walking past them to exit the kitchen. She glances over her shoulder at Wolfgang. “At least you and Will kept me entertained.”

Wolfgang flips her off and she grins wickedly before leaving. Kala pouts slightly at Wolfgang when he looks back at her.

“She’s quite unpleasant,” says Kala.

“So am I,” he points out.

She laughs. “Yes, but I love you so you can do no wrong in my eyes.”

He breathes out, suddenly serious, and shakes his head slightly. “You have no idea what it’s like to hear you say that.”

She presses closer, her hands on the sides of his face again, caressing his jaw, gently pinching one of his earlobes. “Mm, I do, because it’s the same when you say it to me.”

He smiles and kisses her quickly. “I love you.”

She inhales and whispers, “See? I know.”

He kisses her again and she softens against him, letting her hands drop so she can squeeze his shoulders. She stretches on her toes and grins against his lips.

“You’re short…” he mumbles.

She bites his bottom lip in response and he pulls away, laughing. She wrinkles her nose joyfully and they hold each other’s gaze, swaying slightly as they grip each other. After a moment, they reluctantly release each other and begin to make breakfast, drinking their tea and exchanging soft touches while they cook.

They take a plate upstairs for Irina, who they find awake. Her hair is wild and matted and she is organizing Wolfgang’s books on the floor while Lila, across from her in an armchair, watches her coolly and smokes. Irina has arranged the books into several piles in a row. Wolfgang pauses, the levity of the morning with Kala melting away, and slowly sets the plate of food aside.

“Mom? What are you doing?”

Irina turns, shocked, and blinks at him. “I’m -- I’m…” She shakes her head rapidly and turns back to the books, continuing to arrange them, mumbling “no, not there, here, no, there!”

“Mom,” Wolfgang yells.

Irina starts to cry and kicks feebly at one of the piles of books.

Wolfgang exhales harshly, reminding himself that she can’t help behavior like this, that treating her with kindness rather than annoyance resolves the problem more quickly.

He pulls her away from the books and gently rubs her shoulders. “Hey, look at me, what’s going on?”

“This house, this house, I hate this house,” whispers Irina.

He nods. “So do I.”

Irina looks at him, her eyes wet and feral, lips trembling. “No. I can hear him. Anton. I can always hear him in this house.”

Wolfgang takes a moment, watching her. Every time his mother’s instability emerges, despite having seen it all before, despite knowing what to expect, Wolfgang’s heart twinges. He feels that he has spent his entire life, years he cannot get back and time he cannot replace, trying to fix an unfixable mind.

“Mom,” he says gently, mournfully.

“I can,” she says, and then she begins to sob “oh God” repeatedly, trailing off with a quiet, horrified, “I did it.”

“You didn’t know what you were doing,” Wolfgang reassures her.

“Yes I did,” she whispers.

Then she pounds on his chest, crying loudly; he notices Kala take a protective step towards him so he shakes his head, letting his mother continue, and finally she collapses against him, shoulders shaking as she tries to regain her breath. He calmly hugs her and glances at Kala, who looks startled, lost, and slightly afraid.

“Wolfgang...your uncle cannot see her like this,” she says in a hollow tone.

Wolfgang nods, stroking his mother’s hair and patting her back. He nudges her so she lifts up her head and looks at him.

“I’m going to take you to Will’s, okay? You won’t be in this house, you won’t hear him.”

Irina sniffles and nods hard.

“I need you to eat something, okay?” he goes on, reaching for the plate of food on the dresser behind him.

He hands it to her with the cup of coffee he brought and she takes a cautious bite of scrambled eggs after sitting on his bed. He steps close to Kala and leans so only she can hear him.

“Do you have any sleeping pills?” he murmurs.

She nods and hurries out of the room, coming back a moment later with a small bottle. Wolfgang glances at the back and takes out a dose, then approaches his mother. She frowns as he puts the pills into her palm.

“What are these?” she asks.

“They’re like your other pills,” says Wolfgang, “just a little stronger.”

She nods and instantly takes them, washing them down with the coffee, and Kala insistently tugs on Wolfgang's hand and looks at him in alarm.

“What other pills?” she hisses. “Wolfgang, they could be counter-indicated--”

He pulls her out of hearing distance and quietly explains, “Sugar pills. I didn’t know what else to do last time this happened. I told her it was Paxil.”

“What?” whispers Kala, expression falling. “Oh, Wolfgang…”

He shakes his head, jaw tensing. “I know.” He glances back at his mother, who is finishing her scrambled eggs, and quickly squeezes Kala’s arms. “I’ll come back soon.”

She nods, trying to smile, and stretches to kiss him gently. He lets her go and helps his mother into a coat and they exit a moment later, leaving Kala alone with Lila. Wolfgang nods to the left and they leave through the back, cross the courtyard, and reach the driveway.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “No car.”

“It’s for the best, they would recognize your car,” says Irina.

Wolfgang looks at her in surprise. “That’s true.”

He returns inside and wrestles Steiner’s keys from him, then returns and starts the sleek gray sedan. Irina gets unsteadily in the front, glancing beyond the dashboard at the manor.

“I hope I never see this place again,” she says quietly.

“You don’t have to,” replies Wolfgang, lighting a cigarette before pulling out of the drive.

Irina doesn’t speak on the way to Will’s apartment, holding her knees up to her chest, hugging herself and looking listlessly out of the passenger’s window. Wolfgang wonders distantly if she will ever improve, if the environment she lives in matters, or if her mind is too broken to be mended by external factors like safety, a sense of love, security, a future. He’s unsure if her reaction to killing Anton is this severe because she feels a healthy person would not have spontaneously seized her son’s gun; perhaps she would recover from this more easily if she understood her own motivations, but perhaps motivations don’t matter and the act of killing was simply too much for her to handle.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asks Irina, breaking the silence after ten minutes.

Wolfgang turns cold and his jaw jumps. “Because if I told you,” he says, monotone, “then it was real. Then I had to face it.”

“Did you tell Will?” murmurs Irina.

He did, earlier in the relationship than he would have liked; he woke up from a nightmare crying, and Will’s persistence and acute perception made it impossible to shrug off or respond to with a lie. He nods.

“And Felix? Kala?”

He nods again, more heavily, reluctant to have this conversation. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why?” she asks breathily.

He glances at her and makes sure his tone is kind so she doesn’t overreact. “Because you did exactly what I thought you would do if you found out.”

“How many times?” whimpers Irina.

Wolfgang looks at her dully. “Does it matter?”

Irina shakes her head as tears stream over her cheeks. “Your next life will not be this hard.”

“I didn’t know you believed in that,” he murmurs, turning onto Will’s street.

“Sometimes I…” Her voice breaks and she wipes her eyes. “Sometimes I have to or I can’t…or I can’t go on, Wolfgang. I can’t go on.”

Wolfgang swallows and clenches his teeth. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “It’s over now.”

“No,” says Irina gently. “No, things like this, they never die.”

Wolfgang watches the snowy road for a moment, sliding into a parking space, and then he nods faintly. “I know. But they sleep.”

Irina looks at him unsurely but doesn’t argue. He gets out of the car and discards his cigarette, then walks with her to the door, studying his surroundings to ensure no CIA lookout has been posted at Will’s apartment. Considering the agency never knew of their relationship, he doubts they would have a reason to, but he checks nonetheless.

The door opens soon after he knocks and Will looks at him, unsurprised.

“You have a goddamn guardian angel,” Will informs him.

“If I had a guardian angel,” says Wolfgang briskly, “Ajay would be in a bucket in my basement, dissolving in hydrofluoric acid.”

“Yeah, there’s the sane guy I fell in love with,” replies Will, opening the door wider. “Stealing my car wasn’t enough, huh? You needed to steal a cop car too?”

Wolfgang nods. “For fun.”

Will shuts the door after they come in and glances at Irina, saying warmly, “Hey Irina.” He notices her tears and glances at Wolfgang, who gives a small shake of his head, so Will simply says, “Want some tea, coffee, something?”

Irina yawns and sniffles. “I think I want to lie down, actually.”

Wolfgang’s shoulders soften in relief and he nods. “Good idea.” He nudges her towards the bed encouragingly. “It’s okay, just lie down, you’ve been through a lot.”

Irina sniffles again and sheds her coat as she walks towards the bed.

“We’ll be quiet,” adds Will, picking up a half-finished beer from beside the couch.

Wolfgang gestures at it. “It’s noon.”

“That’s cute coming from you,” says Will, drinking.

Wolfgang tongues over his bottom lip and his eyes flicker as he watches Will. “I’m sorry about the immunity deal.”

Will shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t want to talk about it, and he murmurs, “Why is your mom with you?”

Wolfgang breathes out and puts his hand on Will’s arm to guide him into the kitchen. He sits at the table, hands folded in front of him, and Will slides a beer to him.

“My mom is here,” says Wolfgang in a flat tone, “because I don’t trust her around my uncle. She feels too guilty right now.”

Will narrows his eyes as he sits. He’s in work clothes, though his collar is loosened and his tie is undone. Wolfgang suspects he spent this morning, despite being a Saturday, talking to an irritated horde of CIA operatives.

“Guilty?” checks Will.

Wolfgang drinks his beer. “She did it, not me.”

Will leans forward. “Fuck, what?”

Wolfgang shakes his head and glances down, a headache building. “It’s not worth talking about. Can she stay with you for a couple of days?”

“I--”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” says Wolfgang before Will can continue.

Will shrugs replies quietly, “No one’s watching my apartment, it’s fine, better than her spilling the beans.”

Wolfgang squints.

“It’s -- it’s an idiom, it means telling a secret you shouldn’t tell,” says Will quickly.

Wolfgang nods and drinks more beer. Will exhales, eyes slightly wider than usual, and shakes his head as his gaze seeks the floor.

“Why?” he asks, unable to resist.

Wolfgang shrugs, though the answer is clear. Will moves his chair in and looks at Wolfgang intently, refusing to take this as an answer.

“She found out what happened when I was fourteen,” he says shortly. “She grabbed my gun.”

Will rubs his hand over his stubble, searching for a response. He takes a drink of beer and finally says, “You watched that?”

“Yeah, thankfully, because she put the gun to her own head right after,” mumbles Wolfgang.

“Fuck,” breathes Will.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” says Wolfgang.

Will nods. “Okay. Yeah, okay. She can stay here.” He worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “Wolfgang?”

Wolfgang glances up, brow wrinkled, and drinks.

“I tried,” says Will. “I talked to my boss, I talked to his boss, I…” He trails off with a humorless laugh. “I practically begged. There’s nothing I can do.” He pauses and looks down. “But I’ll keep my word. The police will raid your house when Dohkolov arrives. All of you will be arrested, Kala too if Ajay doesn’t come back.”

Wolfgang nods. This is nothing he didn’t expect.

“I’ll give you as much warning as I can,” adds Will.

Wolfgang’s fingers tighten on his beer. He wishes he was torn; he even wishes, momentarily, that he never met Kala. He’s sure, after reflection and apologies, he would have come back to Will. Will, who never hurt him, who has only protected him, who is braver and kinder than any man he has ever met.

Will, who he knows still loves him.

“It wasn’t right for me to ask you to do that,” mumbles Wolfgang. “I shouldn’t have asked you to warn me, I shouldn't have asked you to help me at all--”

“Why?”

Wolfgang breathes out. “Because you love me and I don’t love you.”

There is a heavy pause. Wolfgang clings to his bottle, watching his ex-boyfriend with concern and intensity, and Will finally nods.

“Yeah,” he says, barely audible. “I know.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” adds Wolfgang, equally quiet.

“I won’t, it’s not that, I just --” Will shrugs. “It’s okay, really. I met a guy actually. I’m trying to move on.”

Wolfgang raises his eyebrows and drinks. “Is he a criminal?”

Will actually laughs, drinking too. “No. Uh, he’s police, one of Diego’s guys.”

Wolfgang watches him for a moment, checking himself for jealousy, and finds none. He nods and sets his empty beer down. “Good for you,” he says honestly.

Will gives a small half-smile and shrugs. “Yeah. He’s…”

 _He’s not you._ Wolfgang’s chest clenches, knowing there is nothing he can do to relieve Will’s longing, though he is the only person who could.

“He’s great, we got drinks a couple of days ago,” Will goes on unenthusiastically.

“How was the sex?” asks Wolfgang.

Will points at him warningly as he gets up to get two more beers. “I am not into casual sex. You know that.”

“Didn’t seem like that on our first date,” replies Wolfgang, relying on humor and alcohol to shift the conversation.

Will chuckles good-naturedly. “Yeah, uh, no it probably didn’t. But you’re...well, you.”

Wolfgang smirks. “Was it the jawline or the abs--”

“Okay, fuck off,” laughs Will, sitting down again with the beers. Then he shrugs, softening. “No, it wasn’t any of that. I liked you.” He pauses as he uncaps both beers, then glances over his shoulder at Irina. Assured she is asleep, he turns back to Wolfgang. “Does she know about you and Kala?”

Wolfgang nods, then meets his eyes. “That obvious?”

“Yeah,” admits Will. “I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t have to be--”

“I want to be,” says Will seriously. “I don’t want to live the rest of my life thinking about what I missed. And she…” He shakes his head. “She’s good for you.”

“So were you,” says Wolfgang quietly.

Will nods and meets his eyes briefly. Then he looks down and chuckles. “Hey, do you remember the time…”

The afternoon fades into a memorial. They drink while Irina sleeps, slumping with laughter occasionally, Will throwing himself back in his seat and snorting while Wolfgang peppers the conversation with sarcasm and suggestive jokes. It is an afternoon removed from time. It exists in a universe that never was, the universe that Kala did not interrupt.

“--no,” says Will, almost in tears. “No, you did not look good in that--”

“Look, it was Halloween, I was drunk--”

“Bunny ears,” says Will in disbelief.

“I was drunk,” reiterates Wolfgang, adding, “and I’m drunk now, thanks for that--”

Will tilts forward. “Sorry. Shit, sorry, today was bad.”

Wolfgang shakes his head, more serious, and murmurs, “I know.” He breathes out and moves his chair back, indicating a desire to leave. “I should go, I...”

“You love her,” preempts Will. His expression is softer than usual, but Wolfgang doubts this is the effect of the alcohol. “Go. Really. You’re a good guy but you’re not my good guy.”

Wolfgang fights the urge to tell the truth. He senses that he is Will’s guy, good or not; he senses that Will is sure he will never find someone he feels so deeply for. He knows that it is not his fault that he fell in love with someone else, he knows that Will does not blame him for this, but it is difficult to leave him behind, not because he still loves him. It is difficult because his intuition tells him that he is the love of Will’s life and he cannot now reciprocate.

“I am your guy,” mumbles Wolfgang, giving into honesty. “So I’m sorry.”

Will breathes in. “Life’s like that sometimes--”

“It shouldn’t be” says Wolfgang. “Fuck this. You deserve to be happy, just like me. More than me--”

“Life’s not about deserve,” says Will. “Maybe it should be, but it isn’t.” He pauses. “It’s not your fault that you love her.”

“No,” agrees Wolfgang, sinking in long-buried revelations. “But it’s my fault how I treated you--”

“We’ve been through this--”

“No,” says Wolfgang loudly, and suddenly the kitchen emerges as it would as if he was sober; the humor and distraction fades. “I treated you like shit. It was wrong and I’m sorry--”

“It’s in the past,” says Will quietly. “We shouldn’t both be miserable just because one of us is.” He breathes out. “She’s it for you, don’t worry about me.” He smiles and Wolfgang senses a glimmer of warmth. “Really. I’ll figure my shit out.”

Wolfgang latches onto this fragile promise and nods. He glances at his watch, then at his sleeping mother. It’s almost dark.

“Good luck with the guy you met,” he tells Will as he puts his jacket on.

Will nods, then catches Wolfgang as he walks towards the door. Wolfgang tenses, but all Will does is nod at a suitcase.

“It’s Kala’s, we recovered it from the scene,” he explains and Wolfgang takes it.

Twenty minutes later, Wolfgang wheels the suitcase into Kala’s empty room at the Bogdanow manor. He tenses at first, until Lila, shadowed in the armchair in the corner, murmurs that Kala went to take a walk and that she couldn’t stop her. Wolfgang asks about Ajay’s whereabouts and Lila confirms he is in St. Petersburg.

Wolfgang nods tiredly and decides to go to the pool downstairs. The car collision has left him too sore to sleep and he suspects Kala needs space, so he puts on his swim shorts after Lila departs and descends the stairs to the in-ground pool in the basement.

He opens the door, his towel over his shoulder; the warm air of the accompanying sauna floods over him and then he stops. Kala is in the pool, her hair floating on the surface, her eyes on his without hesitation.

His muscles tense as he looks at her.

“I was sore,” she explains quietly.

He hasn’t breathed since he noticed her. He feels he stumbled into a myth, him a mere mortal, unprepared.

Her eyes ask him to join her and he strips off his shirt, walking into the lukewarm water. Her smile, barely a smile, communicates that she wants to be touched.

He moves through the water towards her. It’s dark in this room and the shadows fall heavily on her face, as if it is lit from below. He realizes that he hasn’t seen her so close to naked as he has now. His gaze lingers on her cleavage, on the curves of her breasts before the bikini conceals them, and he imagines tugging her swimsuit down to expose her nipples.

He’s looked at many women before and wanted nothing but satisfaction; with Kala, he feels something stronger. He feels generous. He wants to make her moan, scream, come.

“I didn’t expect you,” she admits as he reaches her in the water.

“I like to swim,” he tells her.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, body tight with desperation, eyes lit with a fire he’s never seen.

He kisses her. They sink. The turquoise water consumes and baptizes them as their splashes echo on the tile. He feels that finding her here was a confirmation, an unspoken blessing.

After only a moment, he lifts her onto the side of the pool and kisses her sternum hungrily. She peels her bikini top down and he brushes his mouth over her dark nipples; he cups her breasts as she moans, finding that they fit his hands as if they were made for them. His cock swells and her moan intensifies; her body turns molten under his touch and he slips into a world that has never existed before this, a world of pomegranates and snakes.

Then she breathes in and lifts herself out of the water. It is her last return to the world above, the world of wheat and honey, the world of insufferable life. She belongs below. She belongs in the empyreal water, but she needs a final contemplation.

He watches her go, then floats on his back.

***

After an hour of frantic pacing, Kala crosses the room to her suitcase. She unzips the mesh bag where she keeps her lingerie. She avoids anything she has worn for Ajay and decides on a simple lace set, all sheer black. Her breath hastens as she discards her robe and exchanges it for the bra and panties. She pauses, looking in the mirror on the wall, and gently adjusts her breasts in her bra so they appear fuller. She tilts her head, studying herself, wondering if she’s adequate -- he’s very handsome, and she’s sure he’s been with many attractive women. Her jaw gently clenches at this thought, but she puts it out of her mind. She pushes her breasts briefly together, bottom lip nipped in her teeth, then steps out of view of the mirror.

She puts her robe on once more, then enters the bathroom to brush her teeth and apply some lip balm and perfume. She digs her toes into the rug, nervous -- he doesn’t scare her, but sex always has. She lets herself breathe hard for a moment and then she crosses her bedroom with determination; she exits into the hall, bare feet padding noiselessly on the cold wood, and pushes his door open. She expects him to be asleep, but he’s sitting up in bed with a book in one hand, a drink in the other.

He looks up, light eyes wide and startled; his expression is unsure, but he instinctively puts the book aside, sensing why she’s here. She shifts on her feet, then closes the distance between them. She hesitates for a short moment, watching him. Then she wets her lips and unties her robe, letting it fall; she breathes in as he does, then sinks onto his lap and presses close.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” she whispers, breath on his mouth.

He wordlessly reaches to put the lamp out, nose sliding on hers.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, body tight with anticipation under her touch.

She nods. He moves his hands up her back, over the lace strap of her bra, and crests her shoulders. She shivers, blinking, mouth slightly open with desire. He meets her eyes, still questioning.

“Wolfgang,” she whispers, voice heady. “I want this, I want you…”

“Why did you stop earlier?” he asks gently.

“I needed to think,” she admits, impatient now, her pulse pounding between her legs. She nudges her nose against his hard. “Please kiss me.”

He nods softly and kisses her; she relaxes and moans as their tongues brush, her body suddenly hot and dewy with sweat. She tilts her hips against him and feels his cock thicken against her; she whimpers quietly at this, fingertips twitching on his skin. She thought she would want to kiss him for a long time before she opened her legs, but a single kiss has her frantic -- she wants to feel him move inside her immediately.

Her nipples harden as he moves his hands to her ribs and she shivers once more. She tips her head back slightly, exhaling, almost a whine. He slides his hands gently over her breasts, barely a touch, and she straightens her neck to meet his gaze.

He finds the clasp of her bra and asks permission with his eyes. She nods, body electric with anticipation, and he neatly undoes the clasp and tosses her bra to the side. She watches as his eyes find her breasts and notices a soft breeze as he exhales; her skin prickles enjoyably and she arches her back slightly to bring her chest closer to him.

He looks into her eyes again, staggered, and moves his hands to her breasts.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says helplessly as he squeezes.

He gently pinches her nipples between his fingers, turning them red; she watches, breathing rapidly, and he guides one of her breasts towards his mouth and laps quickly over the exposed nub of her nipple. Her toes clench and she moans. She notes a slight smirk on his lips, but moans again, unable to help herself, when he moves to the opposite side.

“I love your tits,” he murmurs after this, mouth pressed gently to the notch between her breasts.

She softens, overwhelmed, and moves her hips yet closer. He glides his hands under her breasts, only to cup them and squeeze briefly; then he moves his hands to either side of her face and kisses her hard. She melts into him after a moment, stunned by the sensation of her chest on his, by the warmth, the intimacy of their heartbeats blending.

He slides his hand down her back, over her hips, and lets them linger on the top of her ass; then he squeezes one cheek, nails pleasantly brushing her skin; he chuckles deep in his chest and pulls away, shaking his head gently.

“You can’t be real,” he murmurs.

She grins hard and softly shoves him. “Stop.”  
  
He shakes his head again and kisses her; she smiles on his lips and he hooks his thumbs under the stretchy lace of her panties and gently pats her bum with one hand. She hums in approval and he tugs the lace down. She knows she was nearly naked with him in the pool, but to be exposed entirely is more intense; she feels her thighs grow slippery, her arousal no longer contained by clothing, and she moans at this alone.

He meets her eyes, asking again, and when she gives a slight nod, he slides his hand between her legs, curling them slightly to press into her folds; her abs clench and she exhales hard; she braces her hand on his bicep, preparing, and he slips two fingers deep into her.

“Wolfgang,” she breathes, tone serious and astonished.  
  
He fingers her gently for a moment while they kiss, messier now, more desperate; he slides his thumb over her clit and she gasps quietly and freezes -- a man has never touched her here, not intentionally, not to give her pleasure. He presses his face into her neck and kisses her just under her jaw, sucking slightly on her skin, and moves his thumb in soft circles. She nearly sobs in joy and relief, her fingers clenched on his shoulders; her mind echoes -- nothing exists beyond or before him.  
  
He moves his hand slowly up, fingers slick from being inside of her, and then takes her waist to bring her closer. He works his boxers down and her pulse accelerates, knowing she's only a moment away from being filled by him; her hips twitch involuntarily at the thought and she trembles slightly.  
  
"You okay?" he asks her quietly, moving the head of his cock up and down her entrance, slow, a distant taste of what he's about to give her.  
  
She relaxes at the sound of his voice and whispers, "I didn't realize how..." She blushes deeply and shakes her head.  
  
He kisses her gingerly and she feels him smile against her lips, pleased. He slides his cock higher so the head connects with her clit and she leans her head back, open-mouthed, profile silhouetted by the violet light outside; she feels him adjust, slightly taller, and focuses on the details as his cock enters her body. She holds her breath, drifting, and exhales gently out her mouth, almost a sigh. At first, she stays still, indulging in the fact that he is finally inside of her. Then he thrusts and she moans helplessly, newly stunned; he groans, relieved, and she follows his movements, hips stretching wider.  
  
"Fuck," he breathes, looking at her with bright eyes.  
  
" _Wolfgang_ ," she moans in response, gaze unwavering.  
  
There is power in saying his name this way. Sweat builds on his nose and his hands grow more insistent on her waist as he fucks her. She leans back again, breasts uptilted, face to the sky. She lifts and sinks, riding him, giving herself to the moment so that her mind is quiet and her body sings. He holds her with strong, warm arms, pace slow, and a low moan builds steadily in her chest. She trembles and releases it as he moves his mouth to her neck, as his tongue finds the soft tendon that runs along the side. She senses he wants to worship her with touch, to prove to her that sex can be healing, holy, beyond comparison. She suddenly craves a faster pace, an insistent one, something that stops her breath and doesn't allow her to catch it.  
  
"I'm not made of glass," she whispers, cheeks hot and dark.  
  
He pulls back, curious and amused. Then he says with a gentle smirk, "Okay. Can I be on top of you?"  
  
She nods enthusiastically, despite a shiver, and he turns her gently, following her body as they switch; he stays inside her through this action. She adjusts her legs around his waist, ankles crossed, and puts her arms around his neck. She has never been underneath a man without an accompanying feeling of fear, and even with Wolfgang, she expects her body to remember the past and tense up -- but it doesn't. She finds herself relaxed, smiling, toes gently twitching. She even pushes forward first, before he has the chance to thrust into her; she wants to feel his friction and his heat, his tight muscles and stubble; she wants his masculinity, his strength, because for once these things don't frighten her; for once, she feels attraction and admiration alone. She likes how she feels as a woman when she's with him; she likes who he is as a man.  
  
He pushes harder into her at this gesture and she moans loudly and nods in approval, then grows abruptly shy at the noise she's making. She knows only he can hear her, but she's never enjoyed sex, and she wonders now if she's too enthusiastic, as if making up for what she hasn't had. After a moment of reserve, he breaks their kiss.  
  
"Babe?" he checks.  
  
"Mm?" she replies, eyes glazed, irises blown.  
  
"You stopped moaning," he tells her.  
  
She blushes and sinks in the mattress, muscles softening. "I...I didn't know if I should--"  
  
"Sex isn't about should," he murmurs. "Moan when you want. I like it." He pauses and glances down. "Fuck, I love it, your voice could make me come."  
  
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, startled by this. Then she whispers, "So could yours. Especially like this, it's.." She blushes harder. "I-- I don't know how to describe it."  
  
"Try," he says with a gentle smirk.  
  
She touches his lips. "It's scratchy and soft."  
  
He smiles. "Yours is too."  
  
She wrinkles her nose in affection, then tilts her body, an invitation to continue. His mouth finds hers again, the kiss deeper, less careful; his stubble brushes her chin and her limbs soften; she arches as he drives into her, toes clenching. She takes a moment here to indulge -- he is inside of her, she's naked against him; finally, they are making love; finally, she can lose herself in the culmination. It isn't the sex itself, but the intimacy, that she feels they've been drifting inevitably towards since they met. But she doesn't mind that they gained this intimacy through sex -- no, she loves this; she loves that their bodies can speak without words; she loves the heat that threatens to overwhelm her, the way her pulse jumps and flutters, the way he grips her as if he'll fall to his death if he doesn't hold tightly enough. She loves, for the first time, her vulnerability, and every breath she draws is a prayer of frantic thanks. She knows how unlikely it was that she met this man; how unlikely it was that they survived until this night.  
  
She wants to give him her very essence. She wants to be his salvation, and in doing so, save herself.  
  
"I love you" has started on her lips, repeated and soft in Hindi, stunned and earnest. Her voice is quiet and Wolfgang pulls up slightly.  
  
"Hm?" he asks warmly.  
  
She shakes her head slightly and murmurs, "I'm close."  
  
He nods and quickly resumes their kiss, mumbling on her lips, "Me too."  
  
"I want to come together," she says, all breath; her nipples grow more erect at her own words. "I want you to come inside me."  
  
He breathes out, moving slowly in her as she spreads her legs more widely, lips on hers in a soft but deep kiss. She groans and her legs relax, toes pointed, thighs warm on either side of his hips; she makes herself intentionally soft as he increases his pace, breasts bouncing as she breathes hard; he moves his mouth to her neck for a moment, licking her here, unrestrained. Her eyelids flicker at the sensation. Sex has never felt this intense, this cleansing.

She closes her eyes as he kisses her neck, as he grips her ribcage and urges her closer. She hums low in her throat and clings more tightly to him, stunned by the way their bodies fit together -- she’s sure she was made for him. Her hair stands on end as he presses deeper and she gasps gently through the kiss.  
  
"Wolfgang, Wolfgang," she mumbles, and suddenly, the words are an affirmation; he is hers, and she is his. "Wolfgang..."  
  
"Fuck, Kala," he murmurs, pace accelerating.  
  
"I love you," she whispers.  
  
She twitches around him and she moans over and over as they come together; it's the first time reality has vanished, the first time her mind has buzzed blankly and her lips have formed an unintentional, impassioned grin. A heady tremble moves down her spine and her moan trails off into a stunned whine, a repeated whisper of “oh, yes, yes…”  
  
He settles on top of her, both of them breathing hard. She slowly cards her fingers through his hair and he slides his arms under her to pull her closer while they come down.  
  
Then he nuzzles his face into her neck, exhaling, and her expression softens, turning to let her lips linger on his temple. She smiles, body still trembling, and she hugs him closer as they rest. Finally he shifts to the side and meets her eyes, and she glances down, grins helplessly, and blushes to the tips of her fingers and toes. He thumbs over her lips.  
  
“I love you,” he murmurs.  
  
“I love you, too,” she replies, adding more quietly, "I've...I've never..." She trails off with a soft sigh, lost, and reciprocates his gesture by touching his lips. "Wolfgang."  
  
He tucks her hair behind her ear. “Was that okay?”  
  
“I had no idea it could feel like that,” she admits, and suddenly, whether due to the rush of hormones in her blood or pure emotion, she starts to cry.  
  
“Hey,” he says immediately, eyes bright with concern.  
  
She shakes her head to assuage him. “I’m crying because I--” She meets his eyes. “I feel so safe with you and...”  
  
Her blush renews and she covers her face, smiling. He nudges her and she shakes her head again, more gently.  
  
“I’ve never come like that,” she says, barely audible. “I’m a bit startled.”  
  
He chuckles, glancing down, clearly flattered. She grins, relaxing, and nuzzles closer; he slowly strokes her back and she thumbs over the short hair above his ear, and they look into each other’s eyes for a moment. She starts to cry again, overwhelmed with relief, and he wipes his thumb under one of her eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says in a high voice.  
  
“Don’t be,” he murmurs.  
  
"I'm not used to sex feeling good and I, I, -- I always told myself it shouldn't feel good and I was wrong to like it--"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because he's a terrible man,” she whispers. “I felt that I should never...feel anything good with him but it’s so hard to be with him so I started...I started picturing you.”  
  
He looks at her in surprise, but doesn’t speak.  
  
She shrugs gently and continues, “That helped, but the sex started to feel good when I did that, and...last month I actually came, and it's been a very long time since that's happened and I felt so sick afterward because I should have saved that just for you--”  
  
"You do what you have to in those moments to get through them,” he says seriously. “There's nothing wrong with that.”  
  
She nods and smiles appreciatively.  
  
“And we’re together now, you don't have to be ashamed to like it. I want you to."  
  
She tips her head down, blinking, eyes bright. “Well, I do.”  
  
He nods and brings her closer. She laughs, touching her nose to his, and meets his eyes for a moment; she never expected to talk or laugh, especially not about sex itself; she didn’t expect to feel more at ease with him now, naked in bed, than she ever has with him otherwise. Being with him like this is a sanctuary.  
  
“Was...was that good for you too?” she asks.  
  
He nods earnestly and slides his nose against hers. She breathes out and responds with a soft, slow kiss, but heat quickly builds and she finds herself craving his touch again.  
  
“I liked…” she trails off, still shy, and he comforts her with a gentle touch down her arm. “I liked when you touched me there, I’ve never had a man do that.”  
  
He frowns slightly. “Put his fingers in you?”  
  
She swallows and her face flushes at the words, though she expected nothing less blunt from this man. She nods and he watches her curiously for a moment.  
  
“I’ve only been with my husband, you know,” she says in explanation, avoiding his name. “He never found any of that necessary.”  
  
“So you’ve never been eaten out?” he checks.  
  
She meets his eyes and blinks rapidly, mouth dry, body suddenly tight with excitement and intense curiosity. She cautiously shakes her head and he starts to smirk.  
  
“Okay,” he says, guiding her onto her back and hovering over her, “that’s going to change…”  
  
She laughs. “Wolfgang…”  
  
“I’m good at this,” he adds.  
  
She covers her face. “Wolfgang.”  
  
He leans to kiss her quickly and she grins against his lips, eyes lost in his. She softens and pulls her fingers lightly over his chin.  
  
“I’m afraid you’ll tickle,” she murmurs.  
  
He raises his eyebrows, amused. She grins again, laughing gently, and then she shuts her eyes and shakes her head.  
  
“I’m sorry I’m laughing so much,” she whispers.  
  
“I like it,” he says, adding more quietly, “I like seeing you happy.”  
  
She grows instantly solemn and nods. If she felt the future was certain, she may not be so open with her words, but the conclusion of the investigation looms; she recognizes tonight may be their only night together.  
  
“You make me so happy,” she tells him tearfully.  
  
“You too,” he replies  
  
They share a deep, lingering kiss before he moves his mouth to her neck, tonguing down it until he reaches her clavicle. She breathes in to steady herself and reaches her arms above her head, fingers clasping, tightening each time his lips find a new place to brush and suck and lightly nip. Heat begins to pound in between her legs again, transforming into an insistent pulse as his mouth reaches her hip bone. He goes slow, lingering whenever she moans to give more attention to her favorite places; he lingers on any bruise that’s discernible in the dim light, and she softens in affection and relief. As he moves lower, she reaches on hand instinctively down to put through his hair, to feel his movements.  
  
She would be shyer if he showed any sign of hesitation, but he doesn’t; it’s clear to her that he wants to praise the smallest details of her body with his touch. Although, she’s not sure she’s prepared for what he’s about to give her, considering she nearly disintegrated at the feel of his fingers -- she knows his lips and tongue are more precise.  
  
He glances at her as he shifts lower and her heart jumps at the image of him between her legs; he moves yet lower and she closes her eyes, the image too potent, and he licks a short stripe up the inside of her thigh. She clenches the pillowcase with one hand and presses her fingers of the other one hard against his head. He repeats this gesture, ending now with a kiss on the crease between her thigh and her pelvis, and copies this action on the other side. She trembles hard, and then stops moving entirely as his tongue brushes between her folds.  
  
She opens her eyes for a moment, studying the sensation, too shaken to moan or arch her back. Then he sucks gently on her clit and she covers her face, caught between a moan, a laugh, and a scratchy “ _yes_.” He repeats this, more briefly, then flutters his tongue lower, a slow, swirling pattern that results in a quiet but endless stream of moans and affirmations. She lifts her hips higher after a moment, then inhales, shy, and pulls them down again; he responds by gripping the outside of her thighs and pulling her insistently against his mouth. She yells softly and tangles her fingers desperately in the pillowcase above her head, rocked and beyond breath.  
  
“Oh-oh,” she half sobs, shaking her head, unable to cope with the intensity as his tongue presses slightly deeper.  
  
He gives her no respite and she begins to say “yes, _yes_ ,” barely audible, all breath; the muscles in her legs jump slightly as if touched by an electric shock, and then he returns to her clit and she gives into a quiet, spent moan as she comes for the second time -- though she thought it impossible, this orgasm is more powerful, and longer, than the first one. It shudders through her with such intensity that her body gently spasms, and continues to echo as he brushes his tongue up to her bellybutton. She has to gasp to breathe again, and she lays still for a moment, lights playing in slow, hypnotic circles on the inside of her eyelids.  
  
“Fuck, I love how you sound,” he mumbles, and she’s startled to find his mouth close to hers again.  
  
She opens her eyes and looks at him briefly before melting into an overwhelmed kiss; they hold each other from the side, then shift so she’s half under him, and she takes his face in her hands.  
  
“Are you this generous with all the women you sleep with?” she asks, tone just this side of playful.  
  
He exhales, amused, and watches her expression closely.  
  
“Because I imagine you would have a cult following if you were,” she goes on.  
  
He raises his eyebrows and slowly smirks. “I’ve never seen a girl come like that, you’re bad for my ego--”  
  
She pushes him gently, laughing. “Stop, you know I’m new to this, please don’t tease me.”  
  
“I’m not, that was hot,” he says honestly.  
  
She eyes him, smiling, and they share another gentle kiss. He holds her closer.  
  
“You only tickled a bit,” she mentions after a moment, her fingertips again on his stubble. “And I liked that.”  
  
He grins. “I love you so much.”  
  
She pauses, surprised by the timing of this; he senses her surprise and shakes his head slightly.  
  
“I love how your mind works,” he murmurs.  
  
She smiles widely and dips her gaze down. “I think I may just be naive about all of this… I point out things other girls would already be familiar with.”  
  
He shakes his head again. “You’re curious, I like it.”  
  
“Hm,” she mumbles, tone bright, eyes slightly sparkling. “I suppose I am curious. I like to analyze every experience.”  
  
He nods. “You’re a scientist.”  
  
“Yes,” she agrees, adding playfully, “and my extensive knowledge of anatomy makes me even more curious.”  
  
He shrugs. “Sex is just a practical anatomy lesson--”  
  
She interrupts with a laugh. “Oh my God…” But then she grins and pulls her fingers along his jaw. “Mandible…” And under his nose. “Maxilla…” Along each cheek. “Zygomatic bone…”  
  
He frowns. “That’s the word for cheekbone?”  
  
“Mmhm, exactly what you expected, right?” she asks, laughing. She tilts her head. “You know, you are rather unfair to other men, you’re very handsome--”  
  
“Kala,” he says quietly.  
  
“You are,” she says, bringing her fingers along his nose. She pauses when she notices a hairline break. “When did you break your nose?”  
  
“Which time?” he replies.  
  
She sighs. “Whoever set the bone should be very proud.”  
  
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, settling slightly closer, voice low, “but I was extremely unattractive before all the plastic surgery--”  
  
“Wolfgang,” she says affectionately, grinning. “Why are you like this?”  
  
He laughs and shakes his head in response and she kisses him, laughing too. He slides his hand over her side and gently squeezes her ass, and she raises her eyebrows.  
  
“When we move away,” she whispers, “you can help me with my anatomy lessons…”  
  
“I don’t know how efficient that would be,” he jokes, his hand gliding lower on her thigh.  
  
She shivers and tilts her head. “I don’t think the point is efficiency…”  
  
He chuckles in appreciation and kisses her again. She smiles against his lips and pulls back to meet his eyes, which gleam with happiness.  
  
“We can live in a castle by the ocean…”  
  
He nods. “A castle…”  
  
“Mmhm, I think we deserve that,” she whispers, then shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. I would live with you in a tiny apartment in...Siberia.”  
  
He smiles but says solemnly, “I would too. You’re all that matters to me.”  
  
She kisses him, with more intensity, another invitation; she wants to make love with him all night, especially now that he’s said this. He slips his hand between their bodies and caresses one of her breasts and she smiles, leaning so his body follows hers. But she pauses, still hypersensitive to touch, caught by an idea. She pulls back and meets his eyes, shy again, and slowly reaches to take his cock in her hand.  
  
His brows twitch in pleasure and he exhales, watching her expression as she twists her wrist, fingers and palm sliding intoxicatingly around him. She notices his gaze linger on her lips, so she bites her bottom one gently, then releases it. Her chest flutters with excitement from touching him like this, and with slight surprise at his size -- she didn’t notice this in the distraction and euphoria when he was inside her earlier.  
  
“I would like to, um…”  
  
She tilts her head, hoping this conveys her desire to give him a blowjob.  
  
“You want to?” he murmurs, voice husky again.  
  
She nods, wetting her lips.  
  
“Are you sure?” he asks. “You don’t have to just because I--”  
  
“I want to,” she assures him, adding with a small smile, “I’m good at it…”  
  
He chuckles appreciatively, then traces her lips with his thumb. “I’m not going to say no. Your lips were made for that--”  
  
She gasps softly, pretending to be scandalized. He shrugs, unapologetic, and she grins and tussles with him after releasing his cock. They laugh together, then kiss hard and soften. Kala pulls away slowly and meets his eyes.  
  
“How would you like me to…?” she trails off.  
  
He shakes his head. “However you want.”  
  
She nods, considering, and then slides slowly off the bed and stands. She coaxes him to the edge of the bed and sinks to her knees in front of him, holding his gaze as she slides her hands up his legs. She notices his throat jump slightly as he exhales and she takes his length in her hand once more, shifting closer on her knees. She keeps her touch light at first, curious, studying him; she’s never enjoyed this, but she’s never particularly enjoyed any aspect of sex, and he’s changed her mind repeatedly tonight. She supposes this will be no different.  
  
She hums in thought and meets his eyes again; she can tell the light has shifted in them; she can sense hungry impatience for her mouth to be around him, but she takes the time she wants before leaning and licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. He closes his eyes and puts his hand in her hair.  
  
“I’d like you to watch,” she admits in a whisper.  
  
He opens his eyes again and she smiles slightly before sucking on the head of his cock, then tilting her head to lick a new, even slower stripe up the side; his fingers twitch in her hair and his cock swells bigger under her touch.  
  
“Kala, fuck,” he murmurs.  
  
She relaxes at his overwhelmed tone. She wants to spoil him with anticipation, so she only takes him halfway the first time she sinks her mouth over him. She smiles slightly around him, eyes still on his, and puffs her lips as she pulls away because he mentioned he likes them. Then she sits back on her hips, taking his balls in her fingers and massaging them gently. She laps over the fluid leaking from the head of his cock, then sinks over him more completely; she listens to his quick intake of breath and urges herself slightly farther. She repeats this motion for a few minutes, movements leisurely but intense, and seeks his eyes often. Soon, he tilts his head back, hand tighter in her hair.  
  
He’s bigger than she’s used to, but she continues, encouraged when he quietly groans and brings her instinctively closer. She sucks more energetically when his groan grows and plays softly with his balls again.  
  
“Baby,” he mutters.  
  
She nearly pulls back to ask if he likes it -- an unnecessary question, she knows -- but she continues instead, too anxious to make him come, exhilarated by the thought alone.  
  
“Babe,” he says, voice clipped, on the edge.  
  
She continues, sinking and resurfacing once more, and he nudges her shoulder gently with his free hand, an indication to pull back. She does, fingers perched curiously on her swollen lips, her other hand stroking him through the last few seconds. He comes on her chest and she smiles gently at this -- a first -- and puts a shy hand over her face, eyes peeking through to watch him.  
  
He falls back on the bed, an arm over his eyes. Then he chuckles and mumbles, “Fuck.”  
  
She’s surprised he was this affected and she rises cautiously to her feet; she lingers at the edge of the bed, and then he sits up, takes her waist, and pulls her energetically onto the bed, rolling closer to her, kissing her hard through a grin.  
  
“Didn’t know you knew how to do it like that,” he mumbles.  
  
She flushes, eyes wider. He kisses her again, then glances at the fluid on her chest, and smiles slightly in apology. She laughs.  
  
“I don’t mind,” she whispers, adding, “thank you for warning me.”  
  
He nods. “Of course.” Then he glances down, chuckling again. “Fuck, that was...I haven’t come like that in a while.”  
  
Her heart swells and she licks over her lips to taste him again, then nods, eyes warm as they meet his. “I don’t normally...like that. But I do with you.”  
  
He nods again, then smirks and presses his thumb firmly to the heart-shaped center of her lips. She smiles and spontaneously laughs.  
  
“I, um…” She looks down and touches his chest. “I was nervous since you’re...rather larger than what I’m used to.”  
  
Wolfgang looks at her for a moment, torn between sarcasm, amusement, and satisfaction. She blushes harder and tucks her face abashedly against his chest.  
  
“He has a small dick?” asks Wolfgang in a smug tone. “No wonder he has masculinity issues--”  
  
Kala starts to laugh and finds it hard to stop. “We can’t make fun of my husband while we're in bed together,” she whispers, though doing so has sent a defiant thrill through her.  
  
“Why not?” asks Wolfgang immediately, running a hand over the crest of her hip. “Fuck him. He doesn’t deserve an inch of you.”  
  
Kala tilts her face towards his, touched, and bites her bottom lip gently. She touches her nose to his and her brow wrinkles.  
  
“You do,” she whispers. “You deserve every inch of me.”  
  
He glances down and shakes his head, smiling. “No, I don’t, but--”  
  
“You do,” she says insistently, pressing closer, adding in a gentle tone, “and I want to show you.” She smiles. “I want to make love again.”  
  
She watches his eyelids soften, his mouth form a more genuine smile, with just a trace of amusement which she assumes is for her use of the phrase “make love.” But she hasn’t melted the ice quite yet.  
  
“You deserve me more than any man ever could,” she goes on, the words coming easily. “Because you love me more than any man ever could. Don’t say you don’t.” She takes two very soft breaths. “I know how you touch me, how you look at me…” Her tears threaten to return. “I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. I care how you treat me.”  
  
“I haven’t treated you as well as I wanted to,” he mumbles.  
  
“You have treated me better than any man ever has,” she says fiercely. “I have never met a man I wanted to be with until I met you.”  
  
He nods slowly after a moment but says, “That doesn’t mean I deserve you.”  
  
“You’re a good man,” she says.  
  
“No--”  
  
“You’re a good man for me,” she interrupts, adding desperately, “Wolfgang, I want you, I want to be with you, why do you--”  
  
“Because you’re a better person than I am--”  
  
“No,” she whispers, voice breathy but insistent. “No.” She thumbs over his cheek and his temple. “Do you trust me?”  
  
He frowns slightly but nods. She smooths her thumb over the crease between his eyes, then kisses him gently until he softens.  
  
“Then believe me,” she says. “Believe me when I tell you that you deserve me, that you’re no worse than me.” She sniffles. “Even if it wasn’t true I would still want you. I’ll want you the rest of my life, no matter what.”  
  
“I love you,” he mumbles after a moment.  
  
“I love you too,” she whispers.  
  
“No, you’re the love of my life,” he says emphatically.  
  
She feels all her breath leave her body and she starts to softly cry, stunned.  
  
“How-- how could you possibly know--?”  
  
“I know,” he insists, gaze fiery as it meets hers. “You’re the woman I want to be with.”  
  
She shakes her head. “Wolfgang.”  
  
“I love you,” he repeats, mouth closer to hers. “I will the rest of my life.”  
  
She breathes out and cries openly, with equal joy and grief. He hugs her closer, her face in his gentle hands, and they meet eyes that share a distant, slowly-easing pain.  
  
“Oh, my family would have loved you,” she whispers after a moment of eye contact.  
  
He nods and murmurs, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“But I love your mother,” she goes on quickly. “We could be a new family, I hope she likes me--”  
  
“My mother loves you,” he says without doubt.  
  
She smiles. “Good.”  
  
She stays quiet as her thoughts rage. _I want to be with you forever; I want to be the only woman you ever want; I want to start a family with you, and I want to die with you._ Her thoughts are beyond expression -- or at least, beyond expression that doesn’t make her weep and disrupt the tension between them that urges them both to make love one more time.  
  
It’s nearly dawn and Kala knows her body is fatigued, but she wants once more to feel him inside of her, so she tilts her face and kisses him, and when he’s slow to touch her, she finds his hand and puts it on one of her breasts.  
  
He looks at her in mild surprise and she glances down, smiling.  
  
“I’m not sure I ever want to stop,” she tells him quietly.  
  
He breathes in at this and caresses one breast, then the other, then softly between her legs until she opens them. She lifts her hips and quietly moans, then grins in relief as he turns on top of her; she locks her legs around his waist as she did before and he slides into her without hesitation. She whimpers happily at the feeling, then kisses him with an open, smiling mouth, which softens only as he thrusts into her, joy replaced by need and hunger.  
  
“Wolfgang,” she murmurs.  
  
“Kala,” he replies, and she suspects he knows she likes her name on his lips.  
  
Then he kisses her neck, tongue soft on her skin as he draws upward towards her ear, and she moves her hips closer, so slick around him that she can hear a gentle swish as he thrusts in and out of her. She swallows, drifting into the pillows as he mouth finds hers again, and together they slow their pace. He kisses her attentively, minding the details of her lips, and she slides her hands down his back and pauses at his hips as he moves in her. She lets her head fall to one side, indulging, and she grins and quietly moans after a moment, feeling her hips flex instinctively to let him press deeper.  
  
They stay like this, slow and heavy, bodies merging as the night goes on; the sensation is intense, but she doesn’t desperately chase an orgasm like before; now, she simply moves with him, slow kisses and gentle trembles, an occasional smile and moan. The time wears on, and she feels a warm touch of sunlight on her skin before her body shakes and she throbs between her legs. She’s close and he is too, she senses, from his shallow breath and his grip on her. She lets her lips find his, tongue soft but deep in his mouth, and he groans as she whines, the flood finally breaking. She comes just after he does and they take needy breaths together, meeting eyes, both shaking.  
  
She lets out a long, deep breath through her nose, body weak with effort, and he nestles into her from the side. She turns after a moment, body close against his, and then he rolls onto his back and she covers him with her body, smothering him and grinning, pulling the blankets into a knot around them. He puts a tired arm around her and kisses her, and then they soften into the mattress, both exhausted.  
  
She settles against his chest, head nestled under his chin, and smiles softly when he tucks her hair behind her ear. Then, after a moment, she grins and nuzzles her nose into his skin, ecstatic, reluctant to leave this night behind and face the dawn.  

 


	9. Caught in slow motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kala and Wolfgang spend a day together, briefly removed from their dangerous lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added **one more chapter** because my friend who shall remain nameless (looking at you, AC) insisted on some happy content before I return to our regularly scheduled angst and pain!

* * *

_I am the orchestra_   
_The conductor too_   
_My heart is a concert hall_   
_And I filled it with you_

Wolfgang wakes with Kala’s weight on him, her head tucked just under his chin, her thin fingers sprawling and pressed tight on his ribcage. He inhales, still under the surface of sleep, and squints slightly at the sensation of waking up with someone in his arms. Kala moves in her sleep, lips finding his skin, corkscrew hair brushing and tickling him as he feels her mouth curve, an unconscious smile; she slides her soft leg along his, her torso connecting with his hip, and she murmurs quietly.

It’s this sound that wakes him fully.

Kala is in his arms because she slept with him last night; she came into his room and they made love over and over until they exhausted themselves, and despite the intensity of her touch and the way her eyes blazed into his, it is only now that the reality of this settles deep in his chest. He feels his grief has softened, warded off by her warmth as she draped over him. Her name comes into his mind like a whispered blessing and he shuts his eyes and holds her closer, suddenly struck by what this means. He is no longer just himself.

Kala murmurs again and lifts, touching her nose to his chin. This simple gesture makes him grin, muscles abruptly relaxed, and he sees she’s grinning too as her eyes open to crescents in the bright winter light.

She blushes instantly and averts her gaze, tucking more securely into his neck, but he feels her lips twitch in inadvertent joy against his skin.

“Morning,” he says in a scratchy voice.

She lifts again, dark brown eyes in his sea-tinted ones. The color of her cheeks darkens and she replies with a breathy, clipped, “Hi.”

The night comes back in a brief flash, her body warm around him, moaning from the depths of her tummy as he moved inside of her, feeling her pulse around him as her legs lost strength and she let his name leave her lips. He remembers the last time he made love like that, but it’s no comparison; the physical intensity may have been the same, but he’s never come down the way he did last night, pulled under the water but inexplicably able to breathe, taken into a world created with each other, for each other. He’s never been so removed from pain.

She settles closer, wanting to speak, but stops herself. He puts his hand through her hair to reassure her, then glances down with a chuckle and a grin, overwhelmed by her presence. This comforts her, because she kisses him quickly and lets her fingers linger on his chest.

“I love you so much,” she says, voice light and new.

His grin softens to a smile. “I love you too.”

They look at each other for a moment, heavy in each other’s arms, and then she hums and nestles against him. He hugs her closer and they’re quiet for a moment before she props herself up on her elbow. Her lips twitch, slightly too solemn to be a smirk, but close. He glances down, her breasts now free from the sheets, and touches his tongue curiously to his bottom lip.

“To think…” she muses, “Soon we’ll have this as often as we want in our villa in Italy…”

He grins and laughs. “Yeah.”

“How is it possible to be so sure of something so quickly?” she whispers.

He shrugs. “Lives like ours always go faster.”

She perks her brows gently and moves her fingertips through the short hair above his ear. “What do you mean?”

He smiles distantly, looking down, and touches his own lips as if to remember her taste from last night. “We have to know how we feel as quickly as possible...know when we have an opportunity that won’t come back.”

She hums and nods slowly, smiling. “Our lives don’t really give us the luxury of indecision, do they?”

“No,” he agrees, turning to put a hand on her side, dragging it from shoulder to hip.

Her smile jumps wider, she shivers, and little bumps come to her skin. She looks down, hiding a grin, and her nose wrinkles in pure pleasure. He touches his nose to hers, closing his eyes, and breathes in the scent of her hair, which imparts jasmine and a touch of chlorine.

“I wish I could have been braver, sooner,” she whispers, her palms sliding up his chest, nose more firmly against his. “Of course I can’t say that I...that I knew who you would be to me when I first saw you, but I swear I knew you would change everything.” Then she laughs. “Oh, maybe I was just hopeful that you would, but…”

“No,” he admits. “I felt the same. There was something about you.”

“I didn’t know it was possible to fall in love so quickly,” she goes on.

He lets his hand descend the small of her back to bring her closer. “I did, but I didn’t know it was possible for me to be honest so fast.”

She brushes her lips on his, murmuring, “It was terrifying, but now I think it may have been a blessing when you overdosed because I don’t believe you would have said so much to me about what your life has been like if that hadn’t happened. You couldn’t help being vulnerable with me...and I couldn’t with you, of course, not with Ajay always hurting me…” She pulls back slightly, biting her bottom lip, and meets his eyes cautiously. “But maybe it’s different for you because you...you’ve had this before, love like this--”

“Not like this,” he interrupts gently. “I’ve never asked myself if I’m wrong to be with you.”

“But maybe you did that before because he--”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t because he’s a guy. Kind of liked that, actually, how much my family would have hated it if I stayed with him.” He smiles and lifts one of his shoulders in a tiny shrug. “It was because it was unbalanced and it’s not with you. I’m not worried you love me more than I love you.” He laughs. “You probably love me more than you should, but--”

She grins and laughs, pressing into him. “No.” Then she tilts her head, serious once more, and whispers, “I wish I could love you more than I do. But this is all I have.”

“I can’t ask for more than that,” he says, kissing her, adding, “can’t ask for more than you.”

She sniffles and kisses him back deeply, tucking one leg lightly around him, chest pressed to his so he can feel her intake of breath. He makes a soft, growling noise in the back of his throat and tangles one of his hands in her hair. She moans quietly into his mouth, smiling, and they pull apart, both giddy.

“When we’re safe,” she murmurs, “I think I’ll keep you very busy…”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I’ll want this constantly,” she explains with a dark blush, the tip of her tongue just visible between her lips as she looks down.

He smiles at her tendency to wet her lips when she’s shy and he bumps his nose against hers, provoking a small giggle. She lifts her bright eyes into his. No one has ever looked at him with such pure exhilaration; it fills him with faith in the future, faith with roots, without doubts.

He chuckles in quiet disbelief as he looks at her. “You make me think the world’s okay sometimes.”

“Sometimes it is,” she whispers playfully, gaze drifting down to their hands, which they’ve tangled between their bodies. “For now it is…”

He nods and kisses her again, then nuzzles her forehead.

“Coffee?” she asks, arching her brows.

He nods again and lifts up, but she squeezes his arms and shakes her head.

“I can,” she says, wrapping herself in the sheet and rising to her feet.

She walks across the room, smiling gently, and he watches her make coffee at the bar, the sheet loose around her glowing form.

She is light embodied, a reason to write hymns. He smiles to himself at this thought -- it’s unusually lyrical for him, unusually tender. She provokes a softness he didn’t think himself capable of, and incredibly, this doesn’t make him feel weak. He feels more like himself than he ever has when he’s looking at her.

She glances at him and they both smile lightly, and then she goes back to stirring dark grounds into a French press. His small gray cat jumps up on the bed and rubs its side against his bicep, purring. Kala looks up again, teeth caught between her teeth in amusement, eyes flashing.

“Someone’s jealous,” she observes.

He laughs quietly as he pats the cat. “Yeah.” Then he adds to it, “Sometimes I want to pay attention to a different kind of pussy, okay--”

“Wolfgang!” sighs Kala.

He looks up at her, grinning devilishly, and raises an eyebrow that dares her to continue. She groans quietly and finishes preparing coffee, pulling the sheet closer for warmth. She returns to bed after a moment with two steaming cups of coffee and playfully kisses the cat’s forehead, then scratches its chin.

“What did you say her name was?”

“Doesn’t have one,” he replies.

“Okay, no,” she murmurs, adjusting the pillows behind her so she can sit comfortably while she drinks her coffee. “Hm, what about Indra? That’s our God of rain and she looks like a little storm cloud…”

“Yeah, fits her personality,” he says, adding, “no idea if it’s a her.”

Kala fixes him with a frown. “Why don’t you?”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “I found her -- it, whatever -- in a parking lot. Didn’t bother to check.”

Kala rolls her eyes and pets the cat fondly before it curls up at the foot of the bed.

“Where’s your sense of curiosity?” she asks Wolfgang.

He takes a drink of coffee. “It died during my childhood.”

Kala nods serenely and touches her nose to his cheekbone. “Mm, I don’t think it did. I just think you don’t find details like this important.”

He turns and shrugs slightly. “Maybe not, but I do with you…” He smiles. “I want to know everything about you.”

She raises her eyebrows as she drinks coffee. “My name is Kala Dandekar, I was born in Mumbai, my dad was a chef and my mom was a seamstress...we lived in the back of our restaurant and I helped my dad work more than my mom because I never had the patience for sewing. So my sister Daya helped her.” She smiles. “We never had a lot of money but we had the most beautiful clothing.” She tilts her head and thumbs over her mug. “I kept as much of it as I could but I never wear it because it reminds me too much…”

His eyes lighten and he looks at her intently. She smiles sadly and glances down, so he tucks her hair behind her ear, fingertips trailing along the bone behind it. He presses his lips softly together as her pain flows through him. He wishes he could take it from her, for her, and as she lifts her eyes into his, he realizes he would give anything to her without question, bear any pain for her without complaint.

“They were good to you,” he murmurs.

She nods hard. “Yes, always. I don’t know if that made it easier or harder when they…”

“We don’t have to talk about this,” he tells her.

She shakes her head softly. “I want to, with you.”

She sits up higher and sips her coffee, thinking. He studies her. He supposes she recognizes the subtleties of his pain the way he recognizes hers; to anyone else, she’s a young woman and he’s a young man; to each other, they’re old, tired, but complete together.

“It was strange because there was no time for...doubt or hope or anything at all. They were just... _gone_. And I was perfectly fine.”

He nods.

“I was sure it was meant to happen, but...well, Ajay never let me pray and I lost touch with what I believed, so I started to question that.”

He frowns. “He didn’t let you pray?”

She shakes her head. “Not at the temple. He thought it was silly.” She pauses, gaze drifting over his shoulder to the frosty window. “I still pray of course but I’d like to do it properly again. I think I might like to wear my old clothes again, actually…”

He smiles gently and glances down. She smiles too, dragging her knuckles down the outside of his arm. Then she brightens.

“Here,” she says, getting up and wrapping the sheet around herself once more.

He watches her curiously as she leaves his room, returning a moment later with a photograph. She hands it to him, pressing close for warmth.

He examines it -- four people outside a modest, urban restaurant: a balding man with warm eyes and a dignified but light-hearted smile, a woman with her hair in a neat bun, dressed in a saffron-colored sari with red flowers, beaming with her hands on two little girls’ shoulders; the first girl is slightly shorter than the second, her face a bit rounder, and her hair is braided; the second girl is skinny, a grin on her delicate features, her hair a wild poof around her shoulders. He chuckles quietly and touches this girl’s face.

Kala beams. “That’s right.”

“You look happy,” he says.

“I was. I wasn’t quite as polished as the rest of my family. I was always running around.” She leans her head on his shoulder and murmurs after a moment, “Mumbai felt infinite.”

He nods.

“Life did,” she adds. “I didn’t worry about anything as a child, I -- I can’t imagine, really, what that was like for you.”

He shrugs. “The world felt small when I was kid. I didn’t know I was any different than anyone else because my life was all I knew.”

“What about Felix?” she asks.

He tips his head back on the pillow. His mouth twitches in a smile and he says, “He was like an imaginary friend. I had to hide him from everyone and no one else was friends with him.”

Kala raises an eyebrow. “Why was that?”

He glances at her, amused. “He always made enemies with the wrong kids, got in fights for fun…”

“No wonder you liked him,” she teases.

He nods. “He was batshit, that’s why he didn’t make me think anything was different for other kids. I thought he had to be fucked up like me to act like that. But that was just Felix…”

Kala grins gently, eyes kind. “I like him. I think he keeps you grounded.” She chuckles. “I would have loved to see what he said about Will at first…”

Wolfgang smirks and shakes his head, then mimics Felix and says, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, man! Do you have a death wish? Why are you this fucking dumb? Better be some good fucking dick...”

“Oh, God,” laughs Kala.

“He didn’t shut up for days,” says Wolfgang.

“I imagine Diego didn’t either,” muses Kala.

“Diego,” says Wolfgang, “came over one time when I was at Will’s place, took one look at me, and walked out without saying anything. Didn’t talk to Will for days.”

“He was worried,” says Kala sympathetically.

Wolfgang nods. “And angry.” He tilts his head to look at her. “And probably right to be...”

Kala hums and nuzzles her head against his shoulder, then twitches her fingers lightly on his wrist, curious.

“Can I ask you something?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Here we go--”

“Oh, you are _such_ an ass,” she says affectionately, sitting up and eyeing him. Her smirk softens and she blushes. “Um. What is it like? With a man?”

“You would know,” he retorts.

“No, from your perspective,” she replies. “I’ve always thought that must be...uncomfortable? And do you like men or women more? And--”

He gestures between them. “This is your idea of pillow talk?”

She flushes, slightly embarrassed. “No, no, I’ve just been wanting to ask but I didn’t know you well enough. I’ve never met someone like you.”

He takes a drink of coffee, shrugs, and glances at her, “I don’t know if I like one more than the other. And it’s not uncomfortable if you do it right.”

She makes a soft, thoughtful noise, and continues, “Does it feel less intimate though? I mean, without being able to look in each other’s eyes and--”

His expression stops her. She puffs her lips out, confused, and her eyes travel from side to side as she considers. Then she raises her eyebrows.

“Oh. You _can_ do it face to face.”

He starts to laugh. “Fuck, Kala, really?”

She covers her face, laughing too, and squeaks out, “I’m sorry, I’m just -- I love you, I’m curious -- I want to know what all that was like for you.” She peeks through her fingers, shoulders softening, and whispers, “Really. I’m only asking because I want to know everything about you.”

He smiles, coaxes her hand away from her face, and kisses her. “I know.”

“It must be so difficult to have everyone look at you differently for something you can’t control,” she says kindly.

“You know I don’t care what most people think,” he tells her quietly. “It was hardest thinking my mom wouldn’t like it, but she didn’t care, and I knew Felix wouldn’t give a fuck.”

He finishes his coffee and slides his hand over the side of her ass, pulling her closer. She smiles at the sensation and plays with the soft hair on his chest.

“Were you scared when you realized that about yourself?” she murmurs.

He shakes his head. “I was worried what would happen to me if my family found out.” He blinks slowly, thinking, and thumbs over Kala’s hip to soothe himself. “But I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me.”

She nods and trails her fingers down to the top of his abs. “Was Will the first man you…?”

He laughs. “No babe, I was twenty when I met him.”

She looks up at him, confused by this response. He raises his eyebrows.

“Do I seem like someone who was responsible as a teenager?” he asks.

She laughs, understanding. “Oh. Well, no, you don’t.” She hums. “It’s strange to think of having sex with so many people. I don’t think I would like it with someone I didn’t love as much as I love you…”

He exhales, almost a laugh. “Yeah, I didn’t think I would like it with someone I did love. With Will, I, uh--” He laughs genuinely now. “We fucked a lot before we ever said that, but the first time after that, he had to tell me to stop trying so hard.”

“You were nervous?” she murmurs, voice warm and surprised.

He nods, lips slightly downturned to convey reluctant agreement.

“But was it better after that?” she wonders.

“Yeah, though I was still afraid to say it.” He glances at her. “I’m not with you.”

She adjusts her leg against his and smiles. “Why?”

He glances at her, smiling too, and nudges her nose with his own. She grins, turning so her legs are around him, and he hugs her as they share a playful kiss. She pulls away with her eyes full of laughter, her hair bouncing, but his expression is suddenly serious.

“Because I always want to be with you,” he says.

She tips her chin up, eyes melting, brow knitted. She breathes in hard. “I always want to be with you too.”

He nods and kisses her again. She smiles against his lips and he slides his hands gently over her breasts, then back to her waist. She murmurs in approval and pulls her fingertips along his jaw as the kiss fades.

“What do you want to do today?” she whispers.

He realizes that they have a day free from the threat of Ajay or Dolokhov. He would like to walk around the city with her, but his arrest warrant complicates this. He glances at her and another idea strikes him.

“I want to show you something,” he says, dragging his fingers up her spine before pressing a quick kiss to her neck.

He nudges her so she gets up with him. She lingers in the sheet, swaying slightly, watching him and waiting for direction.

“Clothes?” she asks.

He raises an eyebrow. “If you want.”

She hesitates and he laughs.

“Yes, we’re going outside,” he tells her.

She rolls her eyes gently and walks from his room into hers next door. He puts on some boxers and jeans and she returns with her suitcase, lugging it onto his bed and flipping it open. He watches as she drops the sheet and responds with a quick intake of breath, but it isn’t in response to her figure -- in the daylight, he can see more clearly how badly bruised and scraped her back is.

“Kala,” he murmurs, the sweater he was about to put on frozen in his hands.

She turns around in the process of clasping her bra and raises her brows. He just shakes his head and she exhales.

“He, um, when he came to the hotel he pushed me into that table and it broke, so…”

Wolfgang’s eyes widen in bitterness and fury and he crosses the room to her, taking her into his arms. “He could have killed you, he--”

“I don’t think he cared,” she whispers.

“Kala--”

“Shh.” She shakes her head and puts her arms around his neck. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

He exhales hard and presses his forehead against hers, then grips her against him and buries his face in her neck. Her fingertips twitch on the skin behind his neck and she softens into him, all the breath leaving her lungs. He screws his eyes shut, reluctant to let her go, to leave her alone ever again.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m here now, I’m with you…”

He shakes his head dully and only holds her tighter. “I’m so sorry. I should have killed him before.”

“I needed him for the immunity deal,” she says soothingly, taking one hand to the back of his head, fingers tangling his hair.

He snorts humorlessly. “Not now, we have to run anyway--”

“But we didn’t know that,” she murmurs.

He tries to nod, clinging to this morning in bed together, talking like years had passed, like Berlin had faded into memory, the pain they experienced now insignificant. He wonders if they will ever struggle to recall details, the way he struggles to remember what flavor cake his mother made for his tenth birthday. He doubts his memories will be anything but crystal. But he also doubts that his memories of Kala will fade and this calms him. If the pain never falls beyond recollection, at least the memory of it will be dotted with stars -- Kala, arriving at the manor, Kala on the rooftop, Kala in his arms and in his bed.

“It’s over now,” she goes on.

“No it’s not,” he says quietly.

She pulls back and meets his eyes; he’s surprised to find her expression serene, almost protective. “Okay, but it’s over for today. Today is ours.”

He shakes his head slightly. “How are you okay?”

Her brow peaks and she shakes her head too. “Oh, I’m not. But I am for now.”

He nods seriously, breathing in, and rubs the side of her hip; she smiles feebly and stretches to kiss his nose, which makes him relax and laugh. She grins when she sees his reaction, then pushes him away gently and takes some panties out of her suitcase, slipping them on.

“Those necessary?” he murmurs as he tugs on the sweater he had in his hands.

She raises her brows at him and maintains direct eye contact until he laughs and glances away. She wrinkles her nose, amused, and grins victoriously. She finishes getting dressed and they spend a moment together in the bathroom, brushing their teeth and washing their faces. Kala swipes on some chapstick and attempts to untangle her sex-mussed hair, giving up only when Wolfgang has to hide a laugh.

They go back into the bedroom and he opens the closet to take out a tightly packed sleeping bag. Kala eyes him, but doesn’t speak, and after he tucks his glock in his belt and they put on winter gear, they go into the hall. They take hands as they start towards the large staircase and Kala looks jubilantly at him.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“You’ll see,” he replies.

She rolls her eyes and hip-checks him on the first step. He chuckles, glancing at her; even after last night, he is surprised by how lively she is, and he’s even more startled by how unburdened he feels. Light and warmth engulf him as if he’s on the hearth of a huge fire and he squeezes her hand hard.

They’ve just reached the bottom of the stairs when Sergei, wearing a scarlet smoking jacket and sipping his morning brandy, intercepts them. Wolfgang feels Kala’s hand twitch in his, but he doesn’t let her go. Sergei looks at both of them in dislike, but doesn’t appear surprised that they are hand in hand.

“Your father’s memorial is today,” he says in a flat tone. “Elke took some ash from the house and we are going to bury it in the family plot.”

Wolfgang nods, passing him with Kala. “Enjoy yourselves.”

“Excuse me?” says Sergei, but his voice is softer than usual -- yesterday's confrontation accomplished what Wolfgang meant it to: his uncle is afraid of him. “Where is your mother?”

“With my ex boyfriend,” says Wolfgang, opening the door to the drive.

“What?” yelps Sergei. “Are you high?”

“Could be,” says Wolfgang, shutting the door hard.

Kala looks at him with wide eyes as the walk across the icy drive, the corner of her mouth twitching, clearly unsure whether she should laugh. He grins at her and she bursts into giggles.

“What -- what were you thinking?” she breathes, exhilarated.

He shrugs. “Might as well have fun with him before he’s sent to prison.”

“But...” she trails off, unsure.

“He isn’t the King anymore,” says Wolfgang with a small smirk. “He doesn’t trust himself after yesterday. But he trusts me.”

She grazes her teeth over her bottom lip, her brows perked perceptively. “I’m afraid your reign will be rather short considering you’re about to escape to Italy...”

He laughs. “I don’t mind.”

He nudges her off the drive, towards the hedges bordering it, and slips through an opening in the heavy, frosted branches. Kala looks over her shoulder at him, unsure, but continues to walk. They pass the courtyard and cross the expansive gardens behind the manor. The fountains have iced over and the rose beds have withered and sunken under a layer of ice. Wolfgang watches Kala study her surroundings, eager to explore, and smiles to himself as he pulls her towards the woods at the back of the property.

There is a narrow, overgrown path, strewn with snow and leaves that have kept their color, protected from the sun by the conifers mixed with the deciduous trees.

Kala seeks his eyes and tangles her gloved fingers in his.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Where I used to come as a kid all the time,” he explains.

“This forest?” she asks.

“I’ll show you,” he says, putting an arm around her waist while they walk.

Kala rests her head on his shoulder and he thumbs over the ribs of her parka, matching his steps with hers. It has been four years, almost to the day, since he’s felt this way about another person, since he’s craved hours alone with them, since his blood has flooded with the heady chemical that comes only from a lover’s touch. Before Kala, he remembered this feeling only distantly, but she renewed it and now it has returned like a shot of bittersweet liquor. Being with her has led him to realize exactly what he was missing with Will -- but it has also forced him to remember how good it was.

For the second time this week, he feels strangely conflicted. He’s sure that meeting Kala is the best thing that ever happened to him. He’s worried that meeting her is the worst thing that ever happened to Will. He wishes life wasn’t a zero-sum game so often.

“It’s beautiful here,” Kala murmurs, bringing him out of his reverie.

He nods, but since he doesn’t speak, she looks at him. He smiles apologetically, thrusting his free hand into his pocket, and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he says quietly.

“Are you thinking about Will?” she asks and he looks at her, stunned. She shrugs gently. “I feel bad too. It’s not just you…”

He nods unsurely.

“I saw how you looked at each other,” she says, voice calm, merely interested. “I think if you never met me you would have found your way back to each other.”

He breathes out, the moisture hanging in the cold air. “I think so too.”

“But this isn’t your fault,” she reminds him softly. “We’re allowed to be happy, even if…”

“I know,” he agrees, relieved she can talk about this without jealousy or judgment. “But he deserved that too.” He pauses, watching his boots in the snow, and then he says quietly, “I don’t love him anymore, not like that, but I -- I do love him. Is that--”

“Okay?” she asks gently. “Wolfgang, I would be worried if you didn’t love him.” She smiles reassuringly. “He’ll find someone else and we’ll all be friends.”

A fishhook of care remains embedded in his chest, and something tugs at it; something threatens to rip it finally free. He looks at Kala and a chill unrelated to the winter day enters his blood -- nameless fear, warning him.

But he just says, “I know,” and holds her closer while they walk.

He guides her to the right as the path curves. They walk quietly through the pines, weak sunlight breaking through the clouds above, casting gold shapes like paned windows on the snow. It is silent here except for the occasional whisper of snow sloughing off a branch or a bird calling.

They jump over a frozen stream, the water moving under the ice, and stand still as they come to a massive tree. Kala gasps gently when she sees a treehouse nestled in the branches and she squeezes Wolfgang’s hand on instinct.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “Oh, who built that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “It was here before my family moved in. The manor’s from the 1890’s and my grandfather moved here in ‘48.”

“Who lived here before?” she asks.

He raises his eyebrows. “House this nice in Berlin?”

“Oh,” she says, following him to the base of the tree.

They look together at the treehouse, high up, and she hugs him from the side. He turns his head and nuzzles into her hair, then steps up to the tree and ascends the lowest branch. He turns to reach for her hand, smiling mischievously, and she laughs and takes it without question. He helps her up the tree, branch by branch, and pushes on her ass to lift her into the treehouse.

“Wolfgang,” she scolds.

“It’s the only thing big enough--”

“ _Wolfgang_.”

He grins and squeezes her ass as he gives it a final, gentle shove. She disappears above him into the treehouse, and then she screams, sending several pigeons out of the windows, all flapping angrily.

“Oh, God!” she hisses.

Wolfgang braces himself on the trunk so he doesn’t fall due to laughter, then tosses the sleeping bag up and hoists himself into the treehouse after it.

He finds Kala standing up, arms folded, lips pursed. He kisses her apologetically, still chuckling, and she flashes her eyes into his but softens. Then she turns to look around the treehouse and he looks with her. It’s as he remembers it from seven years ago when he last came here -- hewn plank floors, a ragged tarp patching part of the ceiling, and his addition: a hole cut in the back wall to spy through so he knew if his family was walking in the woods.

“Never brought anyone here,” he tells her.

“Not Felix?” she asks in surprise.

He shakes his head. “He never came over here.”

She walks around the small interior, her hands on every surface they can reach, and he watches her soften in affection for his past.

“What would you do here?” she asks, turning.

“Read, drink, smoke,” he says, adding as he hugs her from behind and points out of one of the windows, “shoot at that tree for practice, see the marks on it?”

She looks through the hole to see a tall pine with several white bullseyes at varying heights. She glances over her shoulder.

“Were those here before too?” she asks.

He nods. “Yeah. The tree has grown a lot, though…”

He picks up the sleeping bag and unfurls it, then unzips it so it covers the damp parts of the floor. They sit together, leaning on one another.

“This is peaceful,” she says, snuggling into him.

He nods, tucking his nose briefly in her hair. Then he smiles to himself and takes a small, octagonal container out of his pocket. She looks at this, then into his eyes.

“Is that marijuana?” she asks.

He makes a face as he opens it. “No.” He pulls a rolling paper out of his pocket. “Of course not, that’s illegal--”

She buries her face into her hands and laughs. He pauses to glance at her.

“You never got to...get high and make out with a guy you like when you were a teenager,” he says, raising his eyebrows gently.

Her expression transforms from amusement to excited affection, and she stretches to kiss the side of his mouth hard. He smirks, continuing to roll a joint in his fingers, and she perches her chin on his shoulder, watching.

“I love your hands,” she observes.

He turns to touch his nose to her temple in response and she smiles. The snow melts and drips steadily around the treehouse and the breeze brings ice crystals through the air; this afternoon proves winter is fading.

He nudges her after a moment and touches her bottom lip. She looks at him with glassy, hungry eyes and opens her mouth so he can put the joint in between her lips. She smirks around it, holding his gaze, and clamps it with her lips so he can ignite it with his lighter. He watches her, weightless in this moment alone with her, and she closes her eyes as she inhales.

Then she coughs and laughs, tears coming to her eyes. “ _Oh_ , that’s…”

He grins and takes the joint from her, tipping his head back as he takes a drag. She watches him, eyes tracking his lips and fingers, and he blows the smoke out into the air so it hangs in a cloud. She hums and he glances at her irises, already big in her dark eyes. He tucks her curls behind her ear and hands the joint back to her.

She settles in his lap after taking another drag and he holds her close; they pass the joint back and forth for a moment; he notices her body loosen, her laugh become more liberal. She breathes smoke out on his mouth and he laughs, then kisses her and they both moan.

“God I love you,” she murmurs as she pulls away, adding in a mumble as she recaptures his lips, “you taste good…”

He smiles against her mouth and his eyes flicker under his lids when she slips her tongue past his lips. She moans again, shifting to straddle him, and he unzips her coat, then toys with the hem of her sweater. They pull apart, meeting eyes, and she steals the joint from his fingers and slowly puts it to her lips.

She transfers it to his mouth when she breathes out, and he touches his fingers to her bottom lip while he takes a drag, enthralled with how plump they are. She trembles slightly at the attention, and he draws his fingers down her chin and her neck, pausing at her clavicle.

“Touch me,” she urges him, voice breathy.

He nods, returning the joint to her lips; he slides his hands up her sweater while she smokes, then unclasps her bra so he can squeeze her breasts under it. She takes the joint out of her mouth, tips her head back, and gently groans.

“Oh, Wolfgang…”

“Love when you say my name…”

“Wolfgang,” she whispers

He lifts his hips to feel her warmth against his cock and she rocks gently against him, meeting him again in a kiss. He thumbs over her nipples and she breathes out against his mouth, nuzzling him. Then she grins and grips his jacket, rolls onto her back, and tugs him so he’s on top of her.

He laughs, startled, and presses his face into her neck to tickle her with his stubble. She giggles and knees him and then he digs his thumbs into her ribs. She screams with laughter and knees him again, and then they meet each other’s eyes, both out of breath.

“I love you,” she says playfully, sliding her fingers through his hair.

“I love you,” he mumbles.

She surges up to kiss him and he takes her face in his hands; her enthusiasm sends a wave of affection through him and he shifts to kiss down her neck, behind her ear, over the swoop of her collarbone. She moans and nods, and then he moves his hands down her body, grips her waist, and turns her so she’s on top of him.

She sits up, looking down at him, and murmurs, “Ooh, now you’re mine…”

He laughs, though he’s slightly alarmed, and then she covers her face and shakes with laughter.

“Oh God, I don’t know what I’m saying--”

“You’re adorable,” he replies quietly.

She peers through her fingers and raises her eyebrows. He matches her expression, creating a standoff, which she promptly loses by giggling again. Then she shakes her head and lays on top of him, her head tucked under his chin, and breathes out heavily. He puts his arms around her and strokes her ass for a long time, occasionally brushing the skin of her lower back; he closes his eyes and softens into her, more satisfied by this embrace than a kiss.

“This was your favorite place as a child?” she asks sleepily.

He nods. “One of them.”

“How did you find it?” she asks.

He smirks distantly, keeping one hand on her ass to pat it, moving the other to tangle in her hair. “It was Christmas, I was seven, we were having dinner...my father and my uncle were both too drunk to trust so I ran into the woods…”

“Mm,” she murmurs sadly.

“I used to run away about once a month,” he goes on, “and I couldn’t stay with Felix, my father would threaten his mom, so I came here. I lived up here for days sometimes.”

“How?” she asks, playing with the fabric of his sweater.

“Squirrels,” he replies.

She lifts up, distressed, and looks at him with wide eyes. He laughs hard, shaking his head.

“No, I’m kidding,” he assures her. “Babe, c’mon, you fell for that?”

She huffs and snuggles into him again. “I don’t want to kiss a mouth that’s eaten squirrels…”

He shakes his head again and goes on, “No, I’d bring food or steal it from my uncle’s kitchen, make a campfire if I needed to...I liked it here, liked being alone.”

She’s quiet, touching her chilly nose to his cheek. He hugs her more tightly and they stay like this for a moment, breath unhurried. He loves every aspect of this woman, her warmth and kindness as much as her reserve and intelligence, her humor as much as her ferocity. He’s never loved someone so completely, so unquestioningly.

“Glad your husband fucked himself in Mumbai and had to come here with you,” he murmurs.

She laughs feebly. “Me too.” She kisses his jaw. “Thank you for showing me this place.”

He nods. They stay another moment in each other’s arms, the tree swaying slightly in the breeze, flecks of snow streaming through the windows and gathering on them. Finally Kala nudges him, sitting up, and runs her hands through her hair.

They look into each other’s eyes and both grin, and then they get to their feet, pack the sleeping bag, and slowly descend the snowy tree.

The frigid walk through the woods wears down the buzz of the marijuana; by the time they unlock the door in the courtyard and walk upstairs, they’re both shivering and Kala is clinging to Wolfgang for warmth. She pulls him playfully over the threshold to his room and he laughs, kissing her as she walks backward.

His pulse jumps, intending to warm her up in bed, but she pauses and directs her gaze longingly towards the bathroom.

“Take a shower with me?” she asks.

His breath leaves his body and he gently nods, the humor of the afternoon replaced by need. She smiles, now shy and flushed, and pulls him with her towards the bathroom. He turns on the water and shuts the door, then peels her coat off her shoulders and lets it drop. She smiles, kissing him, and they undress each other while steam fills the room.

They step under the hot water, staying close, still kissing. She takes his cock into her hand, her lips curving under his, and begins to pump it; he groans into her mouth, mind emptying of thought, and moves his hands to her breasts, pushing them together and thumbing her nipples. She breathes in, then pulls away and lets out a sharp, short moan as he slides one hand between her legs. She nods in approval, her nose sliding up and down his, and glides her hand back to feel his balls with her fingers.

He groans and tips his head down. “Kala…”

“Do you like that?” she whispers, not teasing -- he’s noticed that she’s genuinely interested in giving him what he likes; her questions are never veiled and her gaze never needs interpretation.

He exhales hard and nods. She nods too, kissing him again, and he presses a finger between her folds, then slides it up to brush her clit. She trembles despite the hot water and puffs a breath, muscles tensing. Then they shift, wrapping their arms around each other, craving a closer kiss. They kiss deeply, unrestrained and lost to each other, for a long time; he flicks and brushes between her legs occasionally to make her moan, and she returns her hand to his cock, stroking slowly.

They stay like this, kissing each other breathless and pressing each other to the dewy tiles, until the water loses its heat.

He wraps a towel around her from behind when they get out, hugging her; she grins and laughs, arching her neck to ask for a kiss here. He chuckles and licks her behind her ear, then kisses the nape of her neck and moves his hands over her breasts through the towel. They stumble together towards the door to the bedroom, but he pauses as they pass the mirror, looking at them together in the fogged glass.

He’s hard and he knows from touching her that she’s so wet she’s nearly dripping between her thighs; he almost groans imagining the relief of sliding into her, but an idea grips him and his eyes flash. He presses his face into her damp hair and lets the towel fall away from her body.

“Watch me touch you,” he murmurs.

She exhales, shaky, and meets his eyes in the mirror. He’s sure that she’ll never fail to shiver or show how startled she is by his direct way of speaking. She nods softly, gaze never leaving his, and he tucks his face into her neck to kiss her. Then he looks into the mirror, watching as his hands find her breasts. He squeezes them, gentle at first, then firmly so the muscles above her tummy tense; he brushes his mouth along her shoulder, closing his eyes at the taste of her skin, and then he looks again in the mirror, watching her expression as he pinches her nipples. Her mouth falls into an open-mouthed smile and she shuts her eyes, euphoric.

“Watch,” he says into her ear, tone husky.

“Wolfgang,” she murmurs, eyes opening to slivers.

He smiles slightly, pressing his length against her, and she moans in anticipation. Color blooms on her cheeks and her chest and her skin prickles under his touch. His pulse picks up, hugging her loosely, and he moves one hand between her legs. She tilts her face towards his for a moment, her forehead on his chin, and he takes his free hand down her thigh and gently guides it so her foot is on the bathroom counter.

She inhales hard, blinking, and then looks in the mirror as he spreads her with his fingers. He feels her chest rise and fall and her pulse quicken against his touch.

“Kala,” he mumbles, stunned by her reflection -- glowing skin, supple breasts with dark, erect nipples, plum-colored folds as full as the lips on her face.

“Oh,” she whispers.

He swishes his fingers between her legs and kisses her neck; she voices her pleasure, quiet moans and gasps caught in her throat, and presses her hips towards his fingers. He expected to make love to her in bed, to repeat the slow, careful rhythm of last night, but she seems to like this.

Still, he mumbles into her ear, “Can I fuck you here?”

She groans, grinning, and nods happily. He nods too, inhaling to steady himself, and takes her hips gently; she tilts her ass up and reaches to guide him inside of her, and then he thrusts into her and she closes her eyes, responding with a quiet but long moan. The sound electrifies his blood and his hips jump, bringing his cock deeper inside of her. She reaches her arms over her head and around his neck, then turns her face to kiss him while they move together. He slides his hands up her body to her breasts, cupping them.

Touching her in the shower must have brought her to the brink of an orgasm, because he notices her breath falter and her muscles grow tight after only a few minutes. He glances at her in the mirror in time to see her brow wrinkle, her head fall back on his shoulder, and her mouth fall open as she moans he name. She pulses around his cock and moans again as she comes, and the sight of this makes him groan and drive into her more quickly.

“Yes,” she whispers, nodding hard. “Yes, oh, _Wolfgang!_ ”

He presses his face into her hair, gripping one of her breasts and one of her hips, and she dissolves into a mess of elated vocalizations. He feels her pound around him again, another orgasm, and he lets his restraint go and comes inside of her, moaning quietly as she does. They both shake, out of breath entirely, and press against each other to stay standing. Kala gasps for air and his sweat drips onto her shoulder, and they stay like this for a moment, too stunned and shaken to move.

Finally he kisses her ear, neck, and shoulder, hugging her, and pulls out. She slowly takes her foot down from the counter, slightly stiff, and then she turns and leans heavily on him, delirious.

“Wolfgang,” she murmurs.

“Fuck, baby,” he replies, mind blank.

She laughs weakly and he rubs her back. Then she lifts her face towards his and they kiss softly, eyes brilliant, and smile at each other as they pull away.

“Sleep,” she whispers.

He nods and they step into his room, holding each other for balance, and fall onto his bed together. Kala pulls the blankets over them and settles close to him, her head on his chest, and he glances outside at the deepening twilight.

The world could have fallen into ruin today, and he smiles, sure he wouldn’t have noticed. 


	10. A sea that's bluer than the tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfgang, Kala, and Will face the final confrontation with Ajay.

****_The power is on, the guillotine hums_

_My back's to the wall, go on, let it fall_

* * *

Wolfgang slides his hand along Kala’s hip, tugging her closer under the covers as he lifts a cigarette to his mouth. They study the ceiling together, both sticky with sweat, overheated despite the cold room. Smoke hangs in the air above them and Kala tips her face up, nose contacting Wolfgang’s jaw. He gives a slight smile.

“Tired of me yet?” he murmurs, turning to meet her eyes.

She grins. “No, not yet.”

She turns to wrap a leg loosely around his middle, palming over his abs and pressing a gentle, playful kiss to his shoulder. He inhales on his cigarette, eyes drifting over her tangle of curls and the slender peak of her shoulder, which catches a glimmer of light through the window. It’s just after dawn and the sun has just shifted into the room, blue and gold off the snow outside; Kala is warm next to him, hair sweet and smokey, her fingertips soft as they explore his skin. He imagines for a moment that this room is detached from the mansion, from Berlin, relocated to a nameless expanse in between what exists and what doesn’t. Kala is almost everything; this room is almost the world.

But she is not everything -- she is not his mother, terrified and isolated; she is not Will, hiding and overcompensating; she is not the men downstairs, gathering with Sergei. And this room will not remain as safe as it is now -- soon, the consequences of the investigation will send them far from here, and though he would never admit it to Kala, he is unsure if that means Italy, prison, or worse.

He breathes out heavily and looks at her, chest tight. He doesn’t know how to recognize fear anymore. It manifests in other emotions -- grief, rage, doubt -- and he wishes, for once, to be able to experience it in its pure form. He wishes he could face the next days with the fear he knows he should have; the fear that evolved in every human; the fear that is premonitory, illuminative.

He thumbs the filter on his cigarette so the ash falls in a dish to the side. He’s insulated himself with Kala, numbed himself with sex -- he knows this does not cheapen or distort his love for her, but it does distract him from the reality that their time together may not last more than days, and if they have just days, he wants to live them without insulation.

“Wolfgang,” Kala whispers in a knowing tone.

He shakes his head gently. “I know.”

“Are you that worried?” she asks, moving her fingers through his hair.

He’s about to reply, but his phone rings; if the plans regarding Dolokhov and their escape were not imminent, he would leave the phone alone, but he feels compelled to answer. He glances at the display, sees the tiny _W_ light up on his screen.

“Hey, how’s my mother?” he asks.

Will replies, “Okay,” and quickly continues, “Listen, Dolokhov just left Moscow.”

Wolfgang sits up in alarm.“What?” He puts his cigarette aside and leans forward. “And Ajay?”

Kala presses close, tense, and strains to overhear.

“Don’t know,” says Will in a clipped, concerned tone. “We’re assuming they’ll go directly to the mansion. We'll be waiting out of sight. We don’t know how many men, but we suspect at least five. We’re sending ten cops and I’ll be there with two of my guys as the supervising agent.”

Wolfgang flicks the ash off his cigarette. “Why?”

“It’s my case,” says Will measuredly. “You two will need to run as soon as we arrest Sergei and Steiner. Your mom can stay at my place, she’ll be safe enough there.” Will breathes out, a characteristic sigh that implies frayed nerves and uncertainty. “Look, if everything goes well with the raid, there may be a chance to salvage your immunity deal. But I wouldn’t stick around waiting for that if I was you.”

Wolfgang nods, brow furrowed. “Okay.” He glances at Kala, then down. “Kala can stay at your place too.”

“No,” hisses Kala quietly. “No, I’m staying with you--”

Wolfgang looks at her and puts a hand on her thigh.

“Fine,” agrees Will tiredly. “Your uncle and cousin will be there when we are, right? We only have one shot at this, Wolfgang.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going to tell them Dolokhov is coming in,” says Wolfgang, adding in a light tone that fails to conceal his concern, “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men…”

“How many?” asks Will, worried. “I have my squad and they’re SWAT but--”

“My uncle will have at least ten men,” says Wolfgang confidently.

There is a pause and the sound of paperwork shifting. Kala takes the moment to press closer.

“I am not staying at Will’s,” she insists.

“Kala--”

“I’m not,” she repeats.

Wolfgang looks at her sidelong and slowly nods, an indication he’ll talk to her in a moment. Will clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll be prepared. We’ll try to apprehend you and Kala after the other four, so you’ll have time. I’ll -- I’ll get your mother out of the country if you need me t--”

“No,” says Wolfgang flatly. “Felix can do that. I don’t want you to lose everything over a stupid risk like that.”

Will pauses, then murmurs, “Okay, thanks.”

Wolfgang smokes needily, mulling the plan over; he’s sure Will, with his linear mind and optimism, envisions a clean operation with minimal collateral. From experience, Wolfgang knows that twenty or more men in a firefight ensures a mess that laughs in the face of plans and hope.

“Will?” he says gently. “Don’t underestimate this. Everyone’s desperate, that makes them dangerous.”

“I’ve been doing this for a while,” says Will, but Wolfgang can tell he’s smiling in appreciation.

He smiles too while Kala impatiently huffs. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good luck today,” says Will.

Wolfgang exhales. “Yeah.”

He tosses his phone aside on the bed and looks at Kala.

“I won’t leave you here during that fight,” she says before he has a chance to speak. “So you come to Will’s place too, or--”

“I have to be here or my uncle will be suspicious,” says Wolfgang.

“Then I’m staying,” Kala replies simply. “I can fight.”

He looks at her gently, unsure how to contradict this without hurting her.

“Not like I can, babe…” he murmurs.

She looks at him with wanting eyes, brow creased with impatience and desperation. She grips his wrists in her slim hands.

“I’m not leaving you here!” she whispers, gaze fierce. “I’d rather die with you--”

“I don’t want you to die, Kala,” he replies. “Especially if I don’t. You have no reason to stay here--”

“If Ajay comes back, I want him,” she interrupts, and her tone stops his breath.

He watches her carefully, startled but filled with new respect. Her eyes glisten, dark with determination, and her jaw is set. She is, in moments, a warrior; she carries an iron strength in her delicate bones.

“What changed?” he asks gently.

Her bottom lip trembles and she shakes her head, but even as a tear falls, the darkness remains fixed in her eyes. “It was one more time than I could bear.”

He nods gravely and tucks a wily strand of her hair behind her ear. “Okay.”

She smiles, feeble, and lifts her coffee to her lips as she looks down.

He is restless and disturbed at the thought of her facing Ajay’s men alongside him, but he knows it would be futile to discourage her again -- she fought her way out of Will’s apartment to face Sergei after his father discovered them all. He’s sure she would do something similar if he forced her to stay with his mother, doomed to wait for news. The idea of forcing this woman to do anything against her will is unimaginable. She is as governable as a cloudburst.

“Won’t forgive you if you die,” he murmurs, sliding his nose against her.

She smiles and presses the smallest kiss to his mouth, letting his upper lip linger between hers. “I don’t plan to.”

They stay close for a moment, then pull away just far enough to continue drinking their coffee. They meet eyes occasionally, the radiance of the morning dimming as the confrontation grows closer.

“How long is the flight from Moscow?” she whispers.

“Three hours,” he replies.

She nods grimly.

“We should talk to my uncle,” he tells her, thumbing over his mug, troubled. “And Lila, we’ll need time to prepare.”

Kala nods again, then reaches to comb her hand through his hair. She rests her forehead gently on his, then holds her breath, her grip on his shoulders tightening.

“I expected a few more days with you before this,” she admits, fearful.

He nods. “Me too.” He pauses, lifting to rest his chin on the top of her head, and takes her into a hug; she clasps her arms tightly around him, her mug pressed to his back, warm. “It'll be over soon and we can leave.”

She sniffles and nods, shifting a leg to slide between his. He rubs her back for a moment, closing his eyes and meditating on her warmth. It will be simple to kill himself if she dies today, and he finds peace in this; he won’t face hesitation the way he did the last time he contemplated this. It’s less clear, however, how he will respond if he is arrested, or if she is, or if they fail to kill Ajay or Dolokhov.

He holds her closer, disheartened and nervous, and she clings to him. After a moment of this, she pulls back and looks at him. Her eyes travel from side to side as if torn, but when they settle on his, they are hopeful.

“We’ve survived this much,” she whispers.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” replies.

“It does to me,” she says fervently. “I don’t mean it makes us more likely to survive now, of course not. I mean that if everything goes wrong...no one can say that we weren’t…” She sniffles and laughs at herself. “That we weren’t strong.”

He smiles with half his mouth, glancing down. Kala’s tenacity sometimes startles him.

“No,” he agrees.

They glance into each other’s eyes and smile, and then they get up together to get dressed. She wears clothes that are practical for agility and he wears his usual dark jeans and black sweater. They spend a few minutes in the bathroom, brushing teeth and combing hair, relieved by the routine; it tells them that today is no different than any day, and though they know it is, they find this reassuring.

Wolfgang calls Lila and asks her to meet at the mansion with the operatives she has stationed in Berlin. She agrees, and he and Kala go downstairs. They find Sergei in the den with several men, sipping his morning brandy, face ashen and grim as he slashes a signature onto a sheet with an old fountain pen. He gives a cursory glance to Kala and Wolfgang, but doesn’t speak.

“Uncle,” murmurs Wolfgang.

Sergei’s nostrils flare. Wolfgang stiffens, out of patience.

“Dolokhov’s men will be here in three hours,” he says sharply.

Sergei’s grip on the pen causes ink to burble on the page beneath. His ice shakes in his glass and he stares.

“ _What?”_

“Think I’m playing?” asks Wolfgang, stepping forward to grip the back of the chair opposite Sergei’s desk. He reaches for the phone, an old rotary style, and dials the number that will reach Sergei's main ally, Leonidovich; when the man picks up, Wolfgang says hastily says in Russian, “Dolokhov is coming, bring everyone. Hurry.” He hangs up after getting a confirmation, then takes Sergei’s drink out of his hand. “Get the guns.”

“You are not the King yet,” says Sergei.

Wolfgang holds his gaze, drinking the brandy that was formerly his. Sergei’s expression blisters, but he gets to his feet and leaves as he was told. Wolfgang turns at a sound in the doorway -- Lila, gilded in black and silver, several women behind her, all heavily armed. Lila’s carmine lips form a slow, committed smile as she looks at Wolfgang, and then she turns her gaze to Kala, brow slightly peaked.

“She is fighting?” she asks.

Kala lifts her chin, forceful, and nods. To her surprise, Lila returns the nod, solemn.

“Good,” she says simply. “Because it appears Kapoor is among Dolokhov’s men.”

Determination and rage spark in Wolfgang’s gut. He looks at Kala, who stands still, silent; her warm eyes glint and he sees her chest rise and fall from a deep breath she just drew.

“He’s yours,” Lila tells her, adding to her operatives, “unless he’s escaping...you let this woman kill Kapoor.”

The women nod in unison and Lila smirks, then crosses the room to pour herself a drink. She leans on Sergei’s desk and addresses Wolfgang, but his eyes are only for Kala, who is staring now out of the window at the ice-bound drive where the enemies will arrive; she was thrust into this world only months ago, her life inalterably transformed by a sudden impulse to ally herself with Will. He thinks she must feel as she did after her family was killed -- her body is the same; her name, her past remain unchanged. But she is not who she was before; the subtleties of identity, the essence of self, are not the same, because they cannot be. That girl was twisted and torn beyond recognition, and the woman that girl became is yet a new woman now -- the transformation was traumatic, he knows, but when he looks at her in the winter light, surrounded by the dark elm wood and gold that his family has sheltered in for decades, he sees an incomparable strength. He knows she will smile at the rain, a child, chocolate, a cup of coffee on a cold morning, and he’s not sure he can say that for anyone else who has seen what she has.

_You should put a bullet in him._

_Why would I give up my humanity to do that?_

He saw her point at the time. He’s sure she said those words genuinely. He’s also sure that her conception of this has changed -- she will not lose anything by accepting what the universe owes her; killing Ajay is an action she and she alone deserves, and he can see the truth in her eyes: anything else would be more of a moral injustice than the act itself.

The light moves around her, a halo, as she turns to look at him; for a moment, he sees beyond the bruises, the frailty. Her skin is stone, her eyes onyx. She turns from him again, taking the oak tree charm of her necklace in her fingers; he sees acceptance and resolve enter her expression, and she lets the charm fall on her bright skin. He sees that she does not and will not need him the way he does her, because she stands here with her heart and her humanity intact.

He breathes out. Sergei reappears, carrying an armful of weapons, tailed by Steiner who is doing the same; his men -- Wolfgang’s men, now -- appear only a moment later, numbering twelve, armed, all ruffled, irritated, stroking their weapons and their flasks as their eyes dart to Sergei. Wolfgang smirks coldly when Sergei balks under the weight of their gaze. Steiner, cowed, grimaces at him and glugs from his ever-present bottle.

“Dolokhov will bring at least five men,” says Wolfgang, and the allegiance transfers to him at these words alone. “I expect more than that. He means to kill me and my uncle. Ajay Kapoor will come too.”

One of the men, a scrawny Russian by the name of Zuykov, directs a look at Kala. “Who’s she?”

“Kapoor’s wife,” says Wolfgang shortly. “She’s with us.”

The men exchange wary glances.

“And you’ll protect her like one of us,” Wolfgang adds at this. “Or I won’t do the same for you.” He checks his glock in his holster, then looks at his uncle and extends a hand for an AK-9. He examines it, then slides it over his shoulder, securing it with a strap. He turns now to Steiner, who’s holding a set of Kevlar vests, and directs him to distribute them with a gesture.

“Five men?” asks another man, gesturing at the group -- with Lila’s soldiers, they number over twenty. He takes a lazy drink from his flask. “That’s nothing.”

Wolfgang looks at him coldly. “And when the police arrive? What then?” He accepts a vest from Steiner. “I’m not as stupid as my uncle.”

No one speaks again. Wolfgang goes to Kala to help her secure the vest around her small frame and she meets his eyes unwaveringly as the material constricts around her. He knows she’s never been in a fight like this, that the instinct to dodge, turn, and duck is not in her blood; and he remembers his first fight of this size -- he was fourteen, and while he escaped with only a graze on his arm, he can still recall the intensity of the fear, the primal panic, the desperation to be anywhere else, all that despite his natural drive to fight, which she doesn’t share.

He knows she’s held a gun, that she can aim accurately against one assailant. He doesn’t know if she can do anything more than this, and he doubts that she can. Every cell tells him to dissuade her from this, but after what he just saw in her, he can’t -- this moment belongs to her; it is the one inevitability of her life, whatever the result.

“You’re only here for him,” he says quietly. “Don’t try to protect any of us. We’ve all done this.”

She nods. “I won’t. But he _is_ mine.”

“I know,” he replies earnestly.

She nods again, then puts her hair up and yanks it tight. He guides her gently closer to the group, and Lila selects a machine pistol from the arms Sergei brought. She hands it to Kala, who studies it for a moment while Wolfgang informs her how to fire. She holds it close to her chest, cradling it, and he notices the first flicker of fear. He slides his hand along her back before breaking from her and addressing everyone with Lila. They explain briefly what to expect from Dolokhov’s assault, and then direct the operatives towards the front of the manor, where they can station themselves in anticipation. Kala, expressionless now, makes to do the same, but Wolfgang catches her in the doorway.

She looks at him with a question in her eyes, but he remains silent, hand finding hers as he walks towards the kitchen. It’s quiet here, dark, the only light permitted coming from the windows high above the cabinets. He studies her face, the tired lines, the urgency for this part of her life to fade, for her life with him to start.

He reaches into a cabinet and pours two shots of vodka for their nerves. She takes hers and looks at him, waiting, wary.

“We need to leave as soon as Ajay and Dolokhov are dead,” he tells her.

She nods. “I know.” She sips her drink and breathes in; she’s different in the armor, with the gun on her side. “If we have to shoot at Will’s men…?”

“Don’t shoot to kill,” he replies quietly.

“But...shoot at them? Even Will?”

“Not Will,” he says, too quickly. He breathes out. “No, not...not Will.”

She nods, gliding her fingers along his bicep to comfort him; he’ll never see Will after this, a reality he’s been aware of for weeks, but one he has failed to internalize or accept. He knows his mind will be clearer without Will, his life easier, but it’s a change that throws a hiccup in the beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry it isn’t...simple,” she offers, sliding her hands now along his chest.

He shakes his head. “Being with you is and that’s all I need.”

She nods unsurely, inhaling, and has just opened her mouth to speak when they are interrupted by the click of heels. They turn to see Lila approach them, grim-faced, but as she reaches them she softens slightly. She extends a manicured hand with a key, an address written in neat cursive on the fob.

“I’m feeling generous,” she remarks. “Napoli will take you. Don’t take _us_ for granted.”

She turns, and Wolfgang is hit with the sense that this is the last he’ll see of her -- shoulders straight, head up, swaying as she adjusts her gun across her body. His breath leaves his body and he nods, too late for her to see, then looks at the gold in his hands. Kala sniffles and presses her fingers over the keys, forming a cage around them. They meet eyes.

“It’s almost over,” she whispers, tears coming.

He nods. “I know.” Then he feels a physical shift in his chest, and for the first time, he believes the words. “It is.”

He pockets the keys and takes her close; she latches her arms around his chest and he hugs her while she quietly cries. The afternoon passes. They finish their drinks. They find each other’s hands and lean heavily, speaking only to remark on a sound or the time. They wait like signals in the night, flickering at times. Wolfgang attunes himself to the energy of the men and women in the next room as they scout the drive for Dolokhov, and Kala’s arms lock around his waist; she breathes in his scent deeply and they sway, trying to create a world that belongs only to them, but that world has to wait.

“If--”

Wolfgang stops Kala before she can continue. “Don’t talk about that before a fight.”

“If I die--” she says insistently.

“Kala--”

She pulls back to stare at him, too forceful to be countered with words. “If I do die...I will be grateful for these last days.” She breathes out, tears close again. She plays with his collar and tips her face down, shaking her head. “I love you.”

He slowly nods, jaw clenched. Then he inhales hard and clinches her arms in his hands. “I love you.”

They breathe heavily together, bodies tight, and she lets out the smallest, weakest sob. He touches his nose to her brow and she convulses.

“It’s enough,” she gasps out, “if I have to die, this -- you -- _you_ have been enough…”

“You have too,” he says ardently.

She nods, eyes wild, and he puts his hands on both sides of her face; he breathes in and sinks into her for a moment; at best he has a hundred years here, a laughable fraction of the time all life has existed; if his time is this short, this meaningless in the face of millenia, then he wants this moment to be the one he remembers, the one he is remembered by; he wants this woman to be the first thought when he name is mentioned, and his the first thought when hers is; he wants his imprint to exist here, now.

After another moment, or five -- her eyes and touch warp time -- he hears a soft alarm; the gate has been broken, and the men who he directed outside have signaled for help. Dolokhov, an enemy he can barely picture, but an enemy who has drawn all those he loves and hates into proximity, is here; and it is too late now to do what he would never have done, but wanted to do: send Kala away to safety.

“I love you,” she whispers again, hurried and urgent.

“I love you,” he agrees quietly, his nose against hers, inhaling the breath she releases.

He doesn’t want to let go of her, and he can tell by her touch that she doesn’t want to either; but they know they must, and they look at each other with useless desperation, unwilling to separate. But when they hear the first shot, they are forced to join the rest in the den. Wolfgang moves through the others, his eyes straying rarely from Kala, and presses close to the windows near the drive; the watchmen are dead on the ice, and Dolokhov’s men are approaching -- greater than five, closer to fifteen; behind them, Will’s team. Wolfgang recognizes Will despite the riot gear, but can’t fixate; the men have come within firing distance, and he can tell from their movements that they have trained for this moment; each man is precise, each shot has a target. He tries not to think of Kala, but he can’t help but turn and meet her eyes as she lifts her gun. Her gaze holds a contingent goodbye, an image for him to remember if they don’t connect again.

As the distance narrows between the Dolokhovs and the Bogdanows, Wolfgang’s blood races; he makes last minute calculations -- who is wearing Kevlar, who is new, who is hesitant; he singles out the new recruits, who will follow orders to their death, and the veterans, who know how to avoid a bullet’s path. He catalogues the weapons they hold, the grudges they hold. The first bullet hisses past him and he aims, muscle memory guiding his own bullet into the temple of the nearest assailant.

The mansion is nearly breached, Dolokhov’s men flooding in before the police, FBI, and BND...Sergei fires indiscriminately, but the other men do not, looking to Wolfgang; he nods, and several of Dolokhov’s men fall before the boss himself emerges, heavy in the chest, appearing merely annoyed, as if today’s encounter is an errand. Wolfgang doesn’t pay him mind, because behind him is Ajay -- skulking, reluctant, an Excalibur rifle in his hands. Bullets erupt and Wolfgang throws himself behind a desk, finding Kala next to him. They pant, listening to the gunfire, and Wolfgang stiffens at the sound of Diego’s voice.

“Keep the Bogdanows, Kapoors, and Dolokhov alive, we want prisoners, not bodies!”

“Put your weapons down!” shouts Will. “We can have a discussion!”

Gunshots drown the last word. Wolfgang huddles under the table, considering, and he and Kala meet frantic eyes as they wait out the next hail of bullets. He feels one graze his vest and winces, and then he perceives Ajay’s voice in a lull -- Kala throws herself to her feet and fires, only to falter as a bullet strikes her vest and her arm. Wolfgang lunges up, guarding her, and finds himself face to face with Diego.

Their eyes communicate the words they cannot say: _I don’t want to shoot you, but I have to._ But before they can act, a bullet lodges in Wolfgang’s vest, and he looks up to see Will aiming; he nods, fading back, giving Diego a chance to do the same. He looks for Kala, but one of his men fires on the police force and they respond without remorse, and the Berlin mob does the same -- bullets fly; combatants fall; sirens ring in the distance.

Wolfgang slips back among the men for a clear shot of Ajay, intending on disabling him, but his guards move in front of him. Diego shoots Steiner and he falls to his knees before being cuffed; several of the men he saw this morning, drinking casually and chuckling at their task, are dead on the scarlet and cream rug; others are injured, to the side, gasping. The police move in, black and masked, like a wave. They surround Ajay as Will approaches Sergei, rifle extended, yelling orders to get down. Ajay lifts his hands to surrender, and Sergei fires a misplaced shot at Will, who fires back and causes Sergei to sink to his knees. Then two things happen at once: Will moves to handcuff Sergei, and in one swift moment, Ajay slides his gun back up.

Wolfgang sees Will collapse before his mind registers the noise.

The officers launch at Ajay, who evades them, sinister and cowardly as he disappears among his men. Wolfgang looks at Will, who has fallen near Sergei, and sees he is holding his hands to a bloom of blood just above his hip. Wolfgang's heart drops like a stone and his movements are not his own as he throws himself towards Will, gun slung over his back; he feels Kala and Diego at his side as the fight intensifies around them, but the click and pang of the bullets is distant, irrelevant compared to Will’s heaving chest.

Kala and Diego hastily work Will’s gear off his body, searching for the sight of the wound; Will helps them weakly, but after only a moment, his hands fall to his sides and he pants. His face shines with sweat as Kala rips open his Kevlar, and Wolfgang meets his bright, transfixed eyes.

“It’s a major artery,” says Kala in a clipped, desperate tone. She looks at Will. “Breathe, try to breathe, it’s your iliac artery, I will try to fix it.” She directs her gaze to Diego, whose features have taken on a tinge of torment, sweaty and distorted. “How far are the medics?”

“I don’t know,” he says, adding forcefully, “Will, c’mon man, it’s just one bullet…”

Will nods listlessly. Wolfgang grips his face and studies him as the light drains from his eyes. Kala tries to stem the bleeding. Wolfgang notices an increase in aggression from the police and FBI and drinks in the groans and disgruntled moans of Dolokhov’s men as they are detained. Will’s injury has created a bubble, a moment where time slows.

Will begins to gasp and convulse, coughing.

“Aspirin!” cries Kala breathily as she checks Will’s BP.

“What’s wrong?” asks Diego.

“Hurry!” she shouts at Wolfgang, adding to Diego, “He has a blood clot.” She shakes her head and sniffles loudly, cradling Will’s cheek. “Just wait, wait, we’ll clear it…”

Will nods, duller than before, and Diego looks in horror at Kala.

“Do something, c’mon!” he yells.

“I -- I’m trying, it’s in his lung--”

“How the fuck do you know?” demands Diego.

Wolfgang loses track of the conversation after this as he enters the kitchen; his vision blurs and his hands become a kaleidoscope before him as they move from cabinet to cabinet, searching. _Not Will. Not now._ He dips his head down, then stiffens. _He’s not dead yet._ He rips open the cabinets until he finds a small, unmarked bottled -- he knows it by shape and hurries with it back into the fight. Will, Kala, and Diego have been left unharmed, and Wolfgang tries to tell himself this is not due to the universal respect for a deathbed.

“Here,” he says as he thrusts the bottle into Kala’s shaking hand.

“Chew these!” she whispers at Will as he tilts a few pills into his mouth.

Her chestnut eyes glow; Will’s cheeks twitch as he chews. He reaches out a hand, and both Diego and Wolfgang take it. Kala works at his wound, hands pressed desperately, and Wolfgang watches as her expression tracks Will’s.

“I had a good run,” he mumbles. “Kinda thought I’d go like this.”

Wolfgang shakes his head.

Will nods weakly. “Yeah….”

Wolfgang looks in anguish at Kala and her tears explode.

“I -- I don’t know why the aspirin isn’t…” She trails off, and then she exhales in realization. “It’s...it’s fat. It isn’t blood. It’s a…” She meets his eyes and shakes her head, horrified. “It’s a fat embolism…”

Her tone tells Wolfgang that nothing can be done, but he refuses this reality and grips Will hard.

“What does that mean?” asks Diego harshly, looking at Kala.

Wolfgang knows what it means, not because he understands what a fat embolism is, but because he has never heard Kala’s tone this certain and this full of grief. He sits back on his hips, and the sights around him fade into a grey blur; he feels he’s at the end of a tunnel, the sounds reaching him indistinctly.

He hears himself without knowing he’s speaking. “No...no, he can’t…”

“It’s okay,” mumbles Will.

Wolfgang looks down at him, blue uniform ripped open to reveal the gash, a river of blood that Kala has failed to halt. His skin, once soft brown from his summers on his rooftop, has drained to grey; his lips too, full and dark before this, are bloodless.

Wolfgang has seen too many men die not to recognize the signs, but for the first time, he refuses and justifies these signs -- Will is just injured, he _must_ just be injured.

“Will,” he says, and his tone returns him to their time together. It’s needy and grateful, the tone he used when they fought but he didn’t want to be left alone.

Kala pushes her hands into Will’s wound and Wolfgang sees they are crimson with blood; Will jerks in pain, then grits his teeth and looks at Kala for honesty. She shakes her head, eyes streaming, and he breathes in hard before nodding.

He looks at Diego. “D, you were my brother, wouldn’t have gotten through half the shit in my life without you there.”

Diego shakes his head hard, pressing closer. “No, man, no goodbyes yet, the ambulance is coming…”

Will turns to Wolfgang and the gunfire disappears around him; Will manages a small, pained smile, and even laughs. He shakes his head. “I  love you, Wolfgang. You were the love of my life…”

Wolfgang knows this is true, and he knows it’s goodbye; he breathes out in rejection of this. “No…”

Shots explode around them and Kala ducks. Wolfgang shelters her automatically and they both huddle on Will, who reaches to touch Kala’s cheek. Wolfgang feels hot tears in his eyes and looks at Will imploringly.

“I know you didn’t feel the same but I’m glad I got to be with you--” mumbles Will, losing diction.

“I did feel the same,” says Wolfgang firmly. “I loved you...”

Will's eyes fill and he nods. “You did."

He breathes out as Kala leans back, giving up, shaken that she cannot fix what she has always dreamed of fixing. The fight rages around them, an orchestra of notes, out of tune; bodies fall, police megaphones rage; but the sound is nothing compared to the song of Will’s fading breath. Will and Wolfgang take hands and Wolfgang begins to shake his head, stroking Will’s sweat-drenched hair. He looks at Kala, almost accusatory, anguished.

“Hey, take care of him, okay?” Will huffs to Kala. “Love him the way I wanted to...” He coughs hard, and his breath becomes shallow. “Since I can’t now...”

Wolfgang briefly lets go, still shaking his head in useless protest; he breathes in Will’s scent and memories flood his mind like falling leaves; the cautious way they touched glasses on their first date, the way Wolfgang kissed him after only a sip of beer; the grey moods they shared together as the winter wore on; the time Will insisted on a walk next to the River Spree despite the frigid rain; the lawns and lakes of spring; the slow touches of the next fall and the ring Wolfgang never admitted he found.

Kala rubs Wolfgang’s back and Diego cries openly, sobs punctuated with defiances.

But Will smiles. “Get to see my mom and dad…”

“No,” mumbles Wolfgang, a hand on his chest.

“Yeah,” says Will, nodding. He laughs in pain. “I love you.”

Everyone choruses this in response though it is only for Wolfgang, who touches Will with soft fingers.

“No,” mumbles Wolfgang as Will’s expression fades to the indifference of death. “No, Will, Will…”

“Wolfgang…” says Kala desolately.

“Will…” whispers Wolfgang.

Will takes a breath and smiles at Wolfgang, then touches Diego’s hand. “It’s okay…”

Kala sobs loudly and cries out as they watch Will struggle to draw another breath; his chest rises, falls, and stays still. Wolfgang stares, too stunned to breathe, but he recognizes the last wretched draw of air. He knows Will is gone and he stares at him; he shakes his head, unwilling, and Will stiffens under his touch.

“No,” Wolfgang says, voice soft and unaccepting. “No…”

Will gives a last, small smile.

Wolfgang sobs and shakes him. " _No!"_

Kala sits back in astonishment as Will’s pulse fails under her fingers. She reaches to gently close his lids. Sirens blare, but as Wolfang predicted, they are too distant. Kala looks at Will in agony, and Wolfgang realizes that Will’s officers have gathered nearby, staggered both by their superior’s death and his relationship with a man they’ve all dedicated years to putting in prison. He’s never seen so many faces reflect an identical emotion this complex. He looks to Sergei, nearby in cuffs, and sees that his face is contorted in rage and disgust; the officer holding him shoves him out of sight, and Wolfgang’s view is replaced by distant paramedics.

He looks down at his hands, covered in Will’s blood, and then at Diego, whose eyes are lit with rage -- Wolfgang sees after a moment that this is directed at him, and a further realization pulls him under: Diego blames him, and is right to. He asked Will for help; he relied on Will’s feelings for him and manipulated his emotions; he knew Will would not say no to anything, even reckless, as long as he stoked the fire of false hope.

 

Reality begins to dissolve around him like the sun meeting the horizon. It cannot be true. It must not be true.

He looks back to Will’s body, vision blurring; his expression is serene, reflecting his last words, which echo his life, and in particular, who he was to Wolfgang: _It’s okay_. It isn’t. It never was. Wolfgang stares, listless, deaf to Kala’s protests that he must get up, to Diego’s building rage. He hears them only in segments.

“-- _they’re coming, we have to leave, Wolfgang! Wolfgang, PLEASE--”_

_“--did this, YOU did this, you never should have come back--”_

Kala shakes him hard and he finally stares at her, eyes wet and vacant; tears stream down her cheeks and she sobs, shaking her head, tugging on him.

“No,” he whispers to her.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, desperately pulling him. “I’m so sorry…”

He lifts his gaze back to the fight, which continues around them; he is in the eye of the hurricane, and he knows it only moments before the storm hits again, but he cannot find the strength in his legs to run; he knows every second he remains here, he risks his life and Kala’s, but he is immobilized by shock and grief. The police nearest him are paralyzed too, unable -- or unwilling -- to breach the shield around Will created by Wolfgang, Kala, and Diego. Wolfgang listlessly watches Lila’s combatants struggle with Dolokhov’s, who is dead near the hearth; he watches the remaining police pour through the meager fighters. Gunfire erupts again and he feels Kala’s nails dig despairingly into his wrists.

Her insistence, the reality that the police have moved closer, do nothing to sway him. She looks frantically from him to Diego, and then turns her gaze over her shoulder to study the scene. Wolfgang follows her line of sight, and after a moment, feels her freeze next to him; by the time he sees Ajay -- inexplicably alive -- Kala has thrown herself to her feet and let out a wild, vengeful scream. It sends a jolt through his body, and he is unsure if it’s this or the sight of Ajay that allows him to get up, but suddenly he is on his feet, gun raised; fury replaces despair and he fixates on Ajay’s remorseless expression as Kala reaches him. His blood rushes in his ears as Kala shoves through the police, adrenaline increasing her strength, and she disappears from his sight; he takes a steel fire iron from near the hearth, sweeping it into two of the police; they grunt and fall, and he disables two more operatives who reach for him, swinging the rod viciously to clear the way.

Kala appears in front of him. She has gripped Ajay’s vest and thrust him against a wall, her gun cocked under his chin; her teeth are bared, the wound on her arm soaking her shirt so it sticks to her skin; her hands are rusty with blood and her chest is heaving. Wolfgang recognizes her expression, because he has seen it in his mother; he knows how often she has felt that she was pushed one time too many -- she said it just this morning -- but she has not truly felt it until this moment.

The memory of his mother lifting a gun to his father’s head crystallizes; he remembers the splatter of blood on his face, the satisfaction of Anton’s body falling; his breath dies as Kala whips her gun across Ajay’s face, his nose shattered, blood spilling out of his mouth. He sags against the walls, eyes lit with terror, and Wolfgang slowly approaches. When Ajay sees him, he grapples frantically for purchase on the wall.

Wolfgang is close enough now to hear Kala’s voice; her tone is what he expected -- ferocious and unhesitant, despite tears -- but her words startle him. He anticipated her to list what Ajay did to her, what he took from her, why he deserves what she is about to do to him.

But she is not thinking of herself.

“-you killed him,” she’s hissing. “You didn’t need to kill him. Not him.” She sobs and shakes him. “Not _him_. Why would you do that?”

Wolfgang’s gun is suddenly heavy in his hand. He breathes out, stunned. Her revenge is for Will, not herself; the action that took her beyond her limit was not the pain inflicted on her, but on Will, and the same was true of his mother. He stands still, staggered by their superiority to him. He doesn’t deserve her, and he didn’t deserve Will; his strength leaves his muscles as he listens, because he knows what he must do -- give her an opportunity to run, and let the police take him so that he cannot follow the temptation to go with her.

“Why?” she repeats.

Ajay struggles with her and shoves her away; she stumbles and lifts her gun, breathing hard, catching Wolfgang’s gaze. She steels herself, aiming, but she trembles. She gives the smallest shake of her head, so Wolfgang shoots Ajay in the stomach.

He collapses at Kala’s feet, writhing. Wolfgang closes the distance between them, fire iron dragging on the blood-speckled carpet. He looks down at Ajay, his face a wreck of blood, and at Kala, who has aimed her gun now at his head. Wolfgang breathes in deeply, lips forming a brutal and humorless smirk. He draws a line with the fire iron down Ajay’s chest, barely touching him, and the innumerable images of Kala, bloodied, bruised, shrunken with terror and punished into surrender, hit him.

He drives the sharp steel into Ajay’s side. Ajay screams and Kala draws a quick breath, unprepared for this. She blinks at Wolfgang, but doesn’t stop him.

“How many times have you hit her?” he asks Ajay coldly. “Think you can take as many of these?” He twists the iron in Ajay’s side and Ajay thrashes and howls in agony. Wolfgang lifts the iron, pausing. He’s never caused this much pain intentionally; he’s never used a hit as an opportunity to humiliate and torture. But Ajay is not a faceless target, and the devastation he caused is too personal to merit a simple bullet. “What did you tell yourself when she was 16?”

“Kala,” rasps Ajay, “Kala please…”

Wolfgang strikes again with the iron. Ajay shrieks and reaches desperately for Kala’s help.

“I can’t help you, Ajay,” she says blandly. “I’m not her, anymore. I’m not yours.”

“You knew how much you hurt her,” snarls Wolfgang. “You never stopped yourself.” He spears the iron into Ajay’s ribs. “But you won’t hurt her anymore…”

Ajay gasps and chokes, turning to Kala. “Ple--”

Her finger twitches before he finishes the word. His skull ruptures from the force of her bullet, blood coursing around him, his head a mere coagulation of bone and brain. Kala drops her gun, undone, eyes lifeless. Wolfgang does not experience the relief that accompanied his father’s death. He is empty, incapable of satisfaction. He closes his eyes as the fire iron falls from his grasp; he wants to slip under, to sleep in the sanctuary of deep, frigid water.

He hears Kala wretch and throw up nearby. He feels his arms wrenched behind him, wrists encased in cuffs. The cop behind him grips his hair and yanks his head back. He forces his eyes open to see Kala.

“Go,” he says hoarsely.

She stands still, lost and weeping, and shakes her head. He hears the remaining police move closer.

“GO!” he shouts.

“I’m not leaving you!” she screeches.

He looks at her in disconsolate confusion. “Kala…” The officer tries to make him turn around, towards the door, but he resists. “Kala, why...”

He trails off as two officers approach her. She puts her arms over her head in surrender and he stares.

“I’m not worth it,” he breathes.

She meets his eyes as one of the officers cuffs her. Several huge tears fall from her eyes and she shakes her head; his throat locks as she gives him a small, hopeful smile that he cannot reciprocate. The officers haul her out of sight, towards the courtyard where Wolfgang knows a fleet of police cars await her.


	11. Oh my love, remind me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kala and Wolfgang face the consequences of Will's death. Diego makes a decision.

_Don't let the curtain catch you, cause you've been here before._  
_The chair is an island darling, you can't touch the floor._

In the gray back office, in the chair which creaks any time he moves, Wolfgang waits for the officers to sift through paperwork. He’s been here for over six hours. He has not seen Kala.

He glances around, searching for some detail to fixate on, but the walls are blank. He reaches to pull his hand over his face but his wrist catches on the handcuffs that are built into the table, which is cold metal, so clean it nearly reflects. He blinks, eyes gritty and raw, and leans back in his chair; the fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows on his features and he shies at the intensity. He assumes other officers are questioning Sergei, Steiner, and Kala to see if their stories match. He assumes they will. There is no benefit in dishonesty now, no good in strategizing. They all wait for the stool to be kicked away.

He closes his eyes as the officers murmur and shift papers on the other side of the table. He expected to fixate on the blood and the pain, but blood and pain are no strangers. He expected them this morning. He expected loss too. He slides his fingers together, flaked with crimson, and shuts his eyes tighter as his jaw clenches. The blood, the pain, the loss itself do not haunt him now; he expects they will eventually, and wishes they would now. He wishes for anything besides the memory of Will’s voice, the acceptance and the immediate, unearned forgiveness.

He wanted rage, denial, blame. But Will died as if his death was the inevitable conclusion to the mistimed renaissance of their relationship, as if he expected to.

Wolfgang wonders now if it’s true, and he remembers considering the same, years ago, alone one night with a drink; his thoughts were musing, almost amused, as he drank and listened to Disintegration: this is going to get one of us killed, isn’t it? He mentioned the idea to Will once and they both laughed.

“Mr. Bogdanow.” One of the officers -- Will’s boss, Rogers -- looks up with an ashen, exhausted face. He staples some papers. “I expect you understand that your immunity deal is forfeit. Ajay Kapoor is dead and your relationship with.” He stops, stiffening, suppressing anger or grief. “With Mr. Gorski. It complicates this.”

Wolfgang doesn’t respond.

“One of our best officers is dead,” Rogers continues, voice measured, reaching for his coffee. “You may not have pulled the trigger, but it is difficult to imagine he would be dead if you had never met him.”

“He wouldn’t be,” says Wolfgang.

Rogers closes the binder in front of him and gets up with the other officer. They leave without another word. Wolfgang leans back in his chair, staring.

* * *

Kala sits on the narrow cot in her cell, looking at the floor without seeing. She shivers, holding her body tight, and presses her tongue hard to the roof of her mouth.

She did not recognize herself after she lost her family, after her first night with Ajay, or on her first day in Berlin. She recognizes herself tonight, though at a terrible price. Ajay is dead and she is not and this conclusion is more than she ever hoped for.

She suspects that Wolfgang is as surprised to be alive as she is. She worries that he does not want to be, that no freedom other than death exists for him now, but the same is not true for her. Prison is freedom compared to Ajay; prison is an ocean, a chance to float on her back and let the currents carry her. But she aches for Wolfgang.

Her eyes flood and she licks her lips as she holds her head in her hands. She sniffles and closes her eyes, trying to locate Wolfgang in the police station through sheer heart, praying to intuit him; she tries not to think that she will never hold him again, and she wishes the grief and guilt was hers alone; she tries to take his pain from the air, to unburden him from a distance.

She hugs herself, fingers hard on the outside of her arms, and slowly rocks as she cries. She isn’t sure how much time has passed before she hears a soft click of a lock next to her. She looks up, then throws herself to the edge of the cell to grasp Irina, who stands before her, white-faced.

“Where is he? Kala, is he--”

“He’s alive,” she whispers frantically, holding Irina’s hands. “But he’s been gone for hours. They’re still questioning him.” She pauses, terrified of what she must explain. “Irina, there...there were more men than we expected and…” She presses her molars together and looks down, tears falling. She grips the other woman’s hands harder and they press their foreheads together. Kala slowly shakes her head, crying openly, and quietly breathes, “Will is dead.”

Irina’s breath abruptly halts and they pull back to look into each other’s eyes. Kala sees that Irina understands the implications of this immediately because her chin twitches and she shakes her head helplessly.

“Oh God help him,” she whispers, and Kala knows she means her son.

Kala closes her eyes, throat thick. Irina tangles their fingers together.

“What happened?” she whispers.

“Ajay shot him,” explains Kala. She trembles at the effort not to sob. “He seemed peaceful.” Then she shakes her head, nose dripping, and her voice crackles as she continues. “I don’t understand. He was so young but...but he got a clot...and none of us...none of us could have done anything. We tried, I swear we tried, we...” She starts to cry again. “God, I don’t understand.”

Kala releases her and wipes her face, then breathes out hard and holds herself. She wants to explain that Ajay is dead, as if this is compensation. She knows it isn’t. She has always understood that death cannot be paid back; revenge is only brief satisfaction for those still living, and it is nothing to the ones who died. She closes her eyes, swaying in exhaustion, and recalls the night Irina shot Anton. She swallows, sick, and grasps the bars; she knows that this woman will understand her more than anyone else, perhaps more than Wolfgang, and she prays they won’t be separated.

“Why are you here?” she whispers.

“I don’t know,” admits Irina. “But they found me so they...they know about Wolfgang and Will? Because I was at...at Will’s…”

Kala swallows and nods. “They do." Then she sighs. "I don’t know if it matters."

“Wolfgang cares what everyone thinks of Will,” worries Irina. "You’ve seen the shows, they send Americans back with the...the flag and the music and...and he won’t get any of that, will he?”

“I don’t know,” admits Kala quietly. “That would be cruel. They all...they all respected him too much to…” She trails off and closes her eyes, tears streaming. She shakes her head. “God, I don’t know."

“It isn’t right,” whispers Irina. “And -- and Wolfgang, and you -- what will happen?”

Kala meets her eyes silently and she swallows. She is about to speak when the door across from the holding cells swings open, revealing Sergei and Steiner, both cuffed and injured.

Diego and another officer accompany them. Diego looks at her briefly and she sees his gaze is clear and fierce; he looks at her again as he unlocks the cell next to hers and puts Sergei and Steiner into it, and she shrinks back; she wasn’t expecting pity or understanding, but she wasn’t expecting this either.

She looks at Irina and sees her worry mirrored in the other woman’s eyes. They slowly release each other and Kala sits gingerly on her cot again, gaze straight ahead to avoid Sergei and Steiner’s furtive glances.

* * *

Wolfgang looks up impatiently when the door opens again, expecting another American stiff. Instead, he sees Rogers, accompanied by a disheveled young woman in a suit that is slightly too large. Her stance and tired eyes suggest that she is a public defender and that she doesn't particularly want this case. Rogers hands him a file and explains that he's been charged with the crimes listed within.

Wolfgang flicks open the file. His eyes track the charges and he sets the file aside with an attitude of casual dispassion. He folds his arms and surveys Rogers and the lawyer.

"I don't want a lawyer," Wolfgang says.

Rogers' face twitches.

"I don't want a lawyer," repeats Wolfgang, "because I did it." He picks up the file, then slaps it down again. "I did all of it."

The lawyer looks from him to Rogers, mouth slightly open, and he opens the door and nudges her through it. It claps shut, leaving Wolfgang alone with Rogers for a single, silent moment, one that Wolfgang remembers. Rogers grips the back of his chair with bony fingers and Wolfgang smiles, slowly at first, then manically; he never breaks the gaze, his beryl eyes newly cold and empty.

"Is this a guilty plea?" Rogers finally asks.

"Call it what you want," replies Wolfgang. "But Kala and my mother and Felix, they didn't do a goddamn thing."

Rogers looks down and shakes his head slowly, gathering his papers. "That isn't true."

"You can try me for all of it," Wolfgang goes on. "You can put me away with my uncle and my cousin, you can tell Berlin you got all of us, you can be the hero. But you don't get Kala, or my mother, or Felix."

Rogers sighs, the corner of his mouth curving. "Unfortunately, Mr. Bogdanow, we already have them."

Wolfgang leans forward, a fierceness that rarely surfaces coming over him. Rogers grows still and Wolfgang's nose wrinkles slightly.

"You know who I know," he says. "I'll kill every guard in this goddamn prison."

With the insidious system of prison bribes and gang loyalty, Wolfgang knows he can make good on this threat. Rogers knows it too and looks at him coldly. He leans back in his chair, about to speak, when a commotion just outside the door sounds.

"Officer -- officer, you can't go in there!"

The door opens just a foot and Diego muscles through it, the hands of the guards slipping off his shoulders. He slams the door back into place and stands still for a moment, staring at Wolfgang.

"Motherfucker," he breathes.

Wolfgang knows what is going to happen before it does. He recognizes the light in Diego's eyes. His smile transforms into a smirk when he looks into the barrel of Diego's pistol, now outstretched in trembling hands.

Rogers trains his own gun on Diego, white-faced. "Officer! Put the gun down! Put it down now!"

"You killed him," says Diego, going in and out of focus like a glitch. "You killed him."

"Do it," says Wolfgang calmly.

Diego steps forward and Wolfgang takes a slow breath as he presses the gun between his eyes. Rogers calls for backup and yells again at Diego, background noise.

"Tell me," says Diego. "Does it change anything?"

"Depends," says Wolfgang. He lifts his eyes to meet Diego's, which are dark with grief. He raises his brows. "Find out."

Diego cocks the gun.

"Ever shot someone like this?" Wolfgang goes on.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" asks Diego, unnerved by his tone.

"It'll get in your eyes," says Wolfgang.

Diego presses the gun more forcefully to his head, breathing hard; the chaos of other officers entering the cell blends into an irrelevant echo.

"You don't care," Diego finally says, barely audible. "You don't even care."

He lowers the gun slowly.

"Thought so," says Wolfgang, because he knows he shouldn't.

Diego swings the gun up and brings it down hard on his face. Blood gushes over his lips and chin and his fingers twitch on the metal table. He clenches his teeth, the room swimming in a crimson haze, and blood gathers on the metal table from a steady stream out of his nose.

"Christ," says Rogers as Diego is detained by three officers who storm the cell.

Wolfgang blinks, watching his blood spread on the table, under both of his cuffed hands. He chuckles, then laughs without humor or reason; the room becomes a wet canvas of red and black, head and foot inverted, synesthetic.

* * *

Kala stands up as the door across from her cell swings open -- it's Diego, struggling with other officers who have detained him, followed by Rogers, who appears nettled and tense. He barks at another officer to send for the medics.

"What happened?" calls Kala, unable to help herself. "Diego? Diego! What happened?"

Diego shakes himself free from the officers, eyes wild and bright with angry tears. "Your boyfriend can't keep his fuckin' mouth shut!"

Kala steps back, stung, and says tearfully, "Diego, we -- we didn't think--"

"I don't give a shit what you thought!" yells Diego, removing his gun from his belt and handing it over to another officer. "You know what you did! It's on you. It's on both of you. This city will be better off when your boyfriend has a bullet in his head."

Kala swallows and whispers, "What did you do?"

"Officer!" Rogers interrupts firmly. "Go home!"

Kala trembles, clinging to the bars, and yells after Diego, "What did you do? What did you do to him--"

"Now, Officer!" shouts Rogers, and Diego tears himself from the scene, disappearing from Kala's view.

"What -- what did he--" She finds herself breathless, Irina beside her, equally frantic. "Officer Rogers, please, what--"

"Calm down!" he says tersely. "He broke his nose." He adjusts his jacket, unsettled by the skirmish, and looks to the officers guarding Kala and the others. "Have you notified the medic?"

One officer nods and Rogers retreats into the offices again. Kala wipes her nose with the back of her hand and looks at Irina, who mirrors her guilt and anger. Then she looks up a low, churlish laugh. Steiner.

"What?" snaps Kala, voice electric.

"Kala," says Irina gently.

"What are you laughing at?" she yells, striding to the other side of her cell to be closer to Steiner, who is slumped on his cot.

"I fucking knew it," gurgles Steiner, shaking his head. "I knew it. I knew that fucking faggot prick was giving us to the cops. He's dead now." He continues to laugh. "You're all fucking dead..."

Kala snarls. "He'll kill you before you ever set foot in your bunk."

Steiner looks at her. "Oh Wolfie will?" He barks a laugh. "When'll he find the time? He'll be too busy in the fucking showers."

He motions in front of his mouth with his hand, then flicks his fingers, imitating ejaculation. He smiles with yellow teeth. Kala exhales with controlled rage.

"They'll find your head in the showers, Steiner," she murmurs. "With your own cock in your mouth."

Sergei looks at Kala too, more calmly than his son. His voice is thick with pain. "You're more like your husband than you know."

"I'm more than my husband ever was," Kala hisses. "My husband was a coward, and so are you, and so is your son, and you're going to lose everything because you were too narcissistic and prideful to notice that we sold you to the police!"

"You're going to prison too, fucking bitch," mutters Steiner.

Kala swallows and raises her brows. "Yes. But I'll survive it."

Then she turns primly and walks back to her cot, where Irina is sitting with a strange expression of fear and pride. Kala sits next to her, shaking with anger, and she gently smoothes her hair and holds her face.

She nods gently as she speaks. "You will need to be this strong for Wolfgang...through...through the trial and the..." Her voice breaks.

"Irina," whispers Kala. "Wolfgang cannot go to prison."

Irina blinks in confusion.

"We're going to run away," says Kala, infusing her voice with as much hope and ferocity as she can; she sniffles and several fat tears fall. "I'm going to fix it." She squeezes Irina's wrists hard. "I have to fix it."

* * *

Wolfgang wakes up in another cell, his head throbbing. He sits up, provoking a wave of nausea, and sees Will in front of him, sitting with his elbows on his knees, his characteristic posture when worried.

"Really think threats'll work?" he asks.

Wolfgang shrugs. "Could."

Will pauses. "What happened to your face?"

"Diego," Wolfgang says roughly.

Will blinks. "Shit, sorry."

"Only you'd apologize," says Wolfgang tiredly, "when you're fucking dead."

Will grins with a touch of the youth and belief he had years ago.

Wolfgang forces himself to sit taller, softening as they mirror each other; he sees that Will is sitting on a bed too, a reflection. "Hey."

"Hey what?" asks Will.

"This a dream?"

"What do you think?" says Will, taking one of Wolfgang's hands to light the cigarette that's between his fingers.

The cell dissolves, replaced by a sunny, riverside park that Wolfgang, somehow, recognizes is in Chicago.

"You miss it?" he asks, letting a taste of cinnamon ice cream dissolve on his tongue.

"Miss what?" asks Will, plunking his sunglasses down on his nose as he takes a bite of frozen chocolate.

"Your city," Wolfgang says, shoring up the edges of the freckled ice cream with a taste.

"Yeah," agrees Will, tangling their fingers.

The traffic is louder than Wolfgang thought it would be.

"How'd you do it?" mumbles Wolfgang.

"What do you mean?" asks Will.

"How did you leave?" he goes on.

Will glances down, then looks at Wolfgang. "Wasn't hard when there was nothing left for me here."

They're on the southern bank Will often described, where the fireworks are sent to the skies. Wolfgang makes a quiet noise of comprehension, almost smiling, and looks up at the blue, now on his back in the grass. He nearly expects the cherry burst of a final firework. He looks to his right but finds that he's alone; the cloudless sky above him bursts into rain.

In his cell, he sits up, startled. He gingerly touches his face, which is wet with blood, and he groans quietly. He swallows a surge of sickly pain and shields his eyes as the door to the cell opens, casting a line of light over him. It's a medic and Rogers, who has a new set of paperwork crooked in his arm; Wolfgang notices the seal of the United States.

* * *

Kala fades as the next hour passes in the dark holding cell. She doesn't know the last time she slept. She doubts Wolfgang has had the opportunity to sleep, and she feels guilty as the urge pulls at her. Irina is already asleep beside her, slumped on her.

Her eyes flutter closed and she forces them open; but when she leans her head on the concrete bricks behind her, her will fails and her eyes slip shut instantly.

The courtroom is smaller than she expected, but the size makes it no less daunting. She straightens her back against her seat as the judge returns to his dias, dull and tired from deliberation. Wolfgang's back is to her. He's in a simple white shirt, hair washed with erosive soap so it stands slightly on end. She knows it's anger, not hope, that allows him to stand straight.

"Wolfgang Bogdanow," says the judge.

Kala grips hands with Irina, though she knows what the outcome must be; she knows what he paid for their freedom.

The judge delivers the sentence in a heavy, uninterested tone. Wolfgang stands unmoving throughout the sentencing. The decades stack up like scoops of ice cream melting on Kala's hands.

She tries to catch the drips but becomes stained and sticky. The courtroom swims in her eyes and she lifts her hands up; she sees they've become covered. Flies gather.

She wakes up with wide eyes, panting, and stares around the holding cell. The others are still asleep. She looks at the clock -- 3:27 -- and softens against the wall, her heart pounding. She closes her eyes for a moment to gather strength, then gets up and quietly tells the guard that she needs the restroom.

The guard unlocks the cell, then takes her by the elbow down the hall to the left; she winces in the light, suddenly aware of a headache, and makes her way towards the bathrooms.

Inside, with the officer standing guard at the door, she splashes her face with cold water until she shivers, then remains hunched over the sink. She grips the sides of it, eyes closed, her hair dripping. She bares her teeth in despair and fury after a moment and lets out a feeble, open-mouthed cry.

She returns to the hall wearing a mask of tranquillity and nods at the guard to signal she's finished. The guard takes her arm again, but she stops at a noise. She turns, and in the intersection with another hall, sees Wolfgang.

His eyes are both black from the broken nose and he has a bloody laceration along his brow. He's accompanied by Rogers and two officers. He stops, as still as Kala, and they stare at each other. Her throat aches and her eyes fill. She instinctively steps towards him, but the guard holds her steady. She shakes her head slightly, tears falling, searching Wolfgang's eyes for an indication of what awaits them.

She finds them hardened, even to her.

The officers push him down the hall, towards her, to enter the room she came from. The guard holding her nudges her out of the way, but she strains to be as close to Wolfgang as possible as he passes, and he struggles with the guards to stay near her for a moment.

"Wolfgang!" she whispers frantically. "God, your face--"

"You're going to be okay," he says, very quiet and calm.

"--where are they taking you?"

He takes her face in one of his hands and thumbs her hair. "You're going to be okay."

"Wolfgang, what do you mean?"

His eyes grow glassy and he presses a long kiss to her forehead, then lets the guards take him down the hall, Rogers trailing them. Kala trembles, blinking back tears, and calls after him; the guard holding her tells her to be quiet and muscles her down the hall after Rogers, and they emerge in the holding room just as an officer cuffs Wolfgang and radios for a car.

"Where are you taking him?" Kala demands, loudly enough to startle the others from sleep.

Wolfgang looks into her eyes, reluctant, and Rogers addresses her.

"The Americans want him," he says crisply.

Wolfgang glances down, jaw tight

Kala slows. "He -- he didn't do anything that could possibly warrant extradition--"

"Oh, you know the word," says Rogers in cold surprise.

Kala opens her mouth to continue, but finds herself speechless. Her heart races and she blinks rapidly, numb as the guard guides her back into her cell. Irina looks in despair and confusion from her to Wolfgang, but Wolfgang keeps his gaze hidden. Kala stares at him, noting his strange serenity and acceptance. She swallows and her tears fall.  
  
He agreed to this. She can think of only one reason why he would.

"Wolfgang," she says pleadingly, barely audible. "Wolfgang?"

He glances at her and Irina as the officer next to him opens the door to the street. "I love you both."

* * *

_One Month Later_

Kala sips a cup of sweet espresso, dressed in white, staring at the television with a disaffected air that she developed to appear unworried to Irina and Felix. She learned quickly after Wolfgang was gone that they both looked to him. Now they look to her.

Felix, pulled from an east side club the day after Wolfgang was brought to the American embassy, was allowed to stay with Irina and Kala in a large, uninspiring hotel near the government district. They were given these quarters to stay in while they awaited the verdict on Wolfgang's extradition. Kala knew the offer was only made because it kept them in one place; if something went characteristically awry between law enforcement and the Bogdanow family, she knew they would be picked up.

Felix sits next to her with a lit cigarette. She disabled the smoke alarm on the first night in this hotel without comment.

"They just keep rolling this shit, huh?" he asks, gesturing at the television which shows Wolfgang being taken into custody at the embassy above a banner that reads: INVESTIGATION CONTINUES IN DEATH OF AMERICAN OFFICER. "Makes it sound like he shot him," complains Felix. "Like he led him into a fucking trap."

Kala tongues a stray drop of coffee from the corner of her mouth and clenches her teeth before speaking. "We did do that, Felix. We just didn't know that we did."

"That's bullshit," mumbles Felix, leaning back and tapping his cigarette along a clunky crystal ashtray. "You had an agreement with the fucking police."

"The public doesn't know that," says Kala gently, glancing at him and taking in his chin-length mop, his wrinkled brow. He's much older than he was when they met and so is she.

The TV flashes an image of Will, smiling in uniform, then cuts to an American official reading a predictable statement of regret and disappointment.

"The Americans wouldn't care about him if they knew the truth," says Kala, sitting slightly forward. "If they knew he and Wolfgang..." She trails off and shakes her head.

"--funeral took place last week with close friends in attendance--"

"Wolfie shouldn't be alone during any of this shit," says Felix sharply, extinguishing his cigarette. "What's fucking taking so long?"

Kala plasters on a smile. "The Germans don't want to give him up. They believe it's bad for public image." She looks at Felix more softly. "I'm sure he's safe."

"Yeah, safe from everybody but himself," remarks Felix.

Kala bites her lip at this but trains her gaze back on the television. She hears Irina exit the bathroom and lowers the volume, watching her tighten the sash of her robe and rub her face.

"She's so skinny," Kala says quietly to Felix.

He glances at Irina and nods. They both look away quickly when Irina passes, taking up her post near the phone, waiting for Wolfgang to call; he calls once a day, all he's allowed, always in the evening. Irina disregards this consistency and sits by the phone as if she could miss his call at any moment.

"Sometimes you gotta accept that someone you love is just mentally fucked," offers Felix after a moment, his voice warm. "Sometimes there's just nothing you can fucking do."

Kala meets his bright blue eyes and fights tears. She understands Irina's irrational desperation, but she forces another smile.

"I think she's just tired," she says.

Felix watches her, scruffy and skinny himself having subsided largely on granola packets from the nearby vending machine.

"You don't have to lie to us you know," he replies.

Kala's smile flickers and she turns off the television, rising to her feet to pour a drink. "I'm not lying, Felix."

She pauses as she pours whiskey when there's a knock on the door. She holds still, staring at the nondescript white door. She swallows and sets the bottle down, then tucks her hair behind her ears and walks stiffly to the door where she looks through the aperture.

She glances down at the sight of Diego, unsure if she has the strength to endure a confrontation. But her fingers find the lock, heart deciding before her mind can protest, and she opens the door. Diego appears smaller than he once did, reduced by his loss; his shoulders aren't so square anymore, and his air of arrant confidence is so diminished that Kala feels a twinge of guilt, even pity.

He tries to smile, which she didn't expect. She sees that he is in uniform, another surprise.

"How are you doing?" he asks.

Kala gives a slight shake of her head and also tries to smile. "Fine."

Diego breathes out heavily and leans on the doorframe before meeting her eyes. "Can I talk to you?"

Kala looks unsurely over her shoulder at Felix, who is startled, and Irina, who is staring unwittingly out the window. She nods at Diego and opens the door more widely to let him into the suite.

"Government set you up with this?" he asks.

"For now," she replies.

"Diego?" says Irina faintly, turning.

"What's he doing here?" asks Felix, cagey, getting to his feet with a new cigarette in his hand.

Diego holds his hands up slightly and glances around at them all. "Look. I'm here to -- to help, to apologize, I don't know. It wasn't your fault he died. And he wouldn't..." He hesitates, shakes his head, and lets out a tiny, dead laugh. "He wouldn't want this to happen to Wolfgang. And I guess I'd rather respect what he would have wanted than what I want."

Kala picks up her glass of whiskey from the counter and takes a small sip, searching Diego's eyes. "Why are you in uniform?"

Diego gestures at the bottle. "Mind if I...?"

Kala pours him a glass of whiskey impatiently and hands it to him.

"They didn't fire me," he explains. "Just suspended me. They thought that, given the circumstances, what I did was understandable." He throws back the whiskey. "That's the bullshit they put in my file anyway. And I got assigned to the case again."

Kala turns away, drinking, and gives a hollow scoff.

"Yeah, wouldn't have been my first choice either," says Diego, adding urgently, "Listen. The Americans are going to win this one. Germany's got Sergei and Steiner as their trophies, and yeah, they want Wolfgang too. But they're not going to fight that hard, not for much longer."

"Why the fuck are we listening to this guy?" Felix mumbles to Kala.

Kala doesn't look at Felix, deciding to assess how trustworthy Diego is. She adds more liquor to her glass and opens the door to the balcony. She lets Diego out in front of her and shuts it to keep Felix and Irina inside.

She sips her drink, unhurried, and stares out at the city. The sun is strong enough today to cut through the frigid air; it gleams on the melting ice along the southern sides of the streets; the city appears brighter than it did this winter, less cryptic.

"How was the funeral?" she asks quietly.

Diego watches her for a moment. He finally drinks and nods, leaning his forearms on the balcony rails. "Fine." Then he breathes out. "It was good. Felt right for him. Kept it pretty small, just my wife and the kids, few of the officers from headquarters."

Kala nods, willing herself not to cry. "That sounds nice. And your wife had the baby?"

"Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, couple of days after Will died."

Kala watches a boat tilt in the wind on the Spree below them, then turns and says solemnly, "I'm sorry."

"I know you are," mumbles Diego, nodding and drinking more. "And I know he is too, I - I saw his face when it happened, I know he loved him." He pauses and shakes his head, almost smiling. "Knew something like this would happen when I found out about them. I walked in on them, and Will and me, we got in this huge fight. Couldn't fucking believe he was ready to lose me over that asshole. But that's the point, isn't it? It was real, and I knew it was real. Didn't want it to be, but I always knew." He pauses. "I almost went to his boss, for weeks I went into work and it was on the tip of my tongue, because it's the honorable thing to do, right? The right thing to do. Except it wasn't, because I never did. I never could. And it wasn't even about protecting Will's fuckin' career. I wanted him to be happy, so I let that shit continue." He finishes his drink. "We all put Will in that room. We were all just fucked up enough to think nothing bad would happen, including him. Maybe especially him, and yeah, that fucks me up to even think that. But he knew the risks more than any of us and he walked in there. He picked that."

Kala closes her eyes and a few tears leak under her lashes. She swallows hard and nods.

"I want to blame Wolfgang," Diego goes on quietly. "But I can't say that Will would be alive if he never met him, if he never met you. All I can say is that he might be alive if your husband wasn't there that day, and well, he paid for what he did." He looks at Kala with unexpected softness. "I'm not sure anyone else needs to."

Kala wipes her eyes. "Wolfgang will pay for the rest of his life no matter where he is, Diego." She trembles and soothes herself with a sip of her drink. "He'll never be the same, even if you forgive him. I hope it gets easier with time, but I know that it will never be easy." She struggles not to break. "He isn't my Wolfgang anymore. I can hear that in his voice."

Diego shakes his head slowly. "Will wouldn't want that."

"He offered himself to the Americans for my sake and his mother's, but he also did that because he doesn't believe he deserves us anymore," says Kala quietly.

"Smart move," remarks Diego. "Bet he knew that we'd want at least one of them to go down for what happened to Will." He shakes his head. "Perfect middle-American man's man, just like his pop. We just love to idolize those guys, we can't help ourselves. See a guy like Will on the TV and suddenly the nation's one big family. Y'all fucked up killing a handsome white cop. That's all it takes there, man."

"I'm sure Wolfgang knew that," whispers Kala. "Your government would surely be willing to hide the fact that Will was culpable too...if they could present this as an..."

"All-American loss, yeah," agrees Diego, adding after a moment, "It's going to be ugly for him there. Depends what they can pin on him, but it's not impossible he ends up dead at the end of all of this."

"You don't think I know that?" breathes Kala, mirroring him by leaning on the railing. "What do you suggest we do?"

Diego glances at her. "I'm going to regret this. You still in contact with Facchini?"

* * *

_Another Week Later_

Wolfgang offers his hands to the American officers who arrive at his cell early Saturday morning; one of them cuffs him expressionlessly and he throws a defiant smirk to Rogers, knowing someone of his importance wouldn't participate in a routine transfer.

"Germany finally give you what you want?" he asks.

Rogers doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. He directs the officers down the hall with Wolfgang, who glances out of the high, opaque windows that let in a modicum of sunlight. He stretches his wrists against the cuffs and arches his back, sore from waiting on a hard bed.

Alone, he finds grief consumptive and poisonous, but around others, he struggles against flippancy and apathy. He finds the strangest, smallest things funny -- a missed button on a guard's uniform, the color of the caustic soap in the showers, the crackly buzz of the PA. Alone, he reminds himself that his mother coped like this, and he shies from it. But it's an intoxicating relief in moments like this. He understands the mugshots with shit-eating grins; he gets the peals of laughter in funereal court deliberations.

Rogers presses his badge to a metal door and it swishes open, revealing a simple white room with a metal table, a counter with a pot of coffee, a small cell, and a window that looks over the embassy parking lot. Diego is standing guard at the door, as expected. The officers put Wolfgang in the cell and uncuff him. Rogers thanks them, then nods at Diego.

"The van will be here soon," he says.

Diego nods too. "Yes, sir."

He glances at Wolfgang as the door shuts and Wolfgang looks back with confidence. Diego glances at the camera in the corner of the ceiling, and Wolfgang follows his gaze; they wait a moment, the camera blinking red, red, red until it stops.

Diego goes to the cell and unlocks it. He holds still in front of Wolfgang, a final contemplation, and then he huffs and glances down, beginning to take off his uniform. He hands it to Wolfgang in pieces and Wolfgang exchanges it for his own clothes and takes Diego's gun. Diego drops the keys just inside the cell, the door ajar after Wolfgang steps through it.

"Thank you," says Wolfgang quietly.

"Just do it before the camera comes back on," replies Diego, stiffening.

Wolfgang punches him hard in the face. This done, he wraps his arm around Diego's neck from behind and counts until he drops to the floor, unconscious.

He takes his badge on its lanyard and presses it to the sensor near the door. It opens. He pulls his cap down to conceal his face, keeps his head down as he crosses the lot, and nods at the security personnel guarding the car gate. He presses the stolen badge to another sensor. The gate beeps and opens and he walks into Berlin.

* * *

 

Kala waits along a sunny, windy runway, her silk dress caught in the air like a wave spitting on the shore. She stands straight and still between Felix and Irina in the shadow of an idling Russian plane, holding a Lobaev rifle.

An old gray car pulls up and slows along the plane. Kala's hands tighten on the gun, but she doesn't step away from the others. She watches with heady and blinding anticipation as Wolfgang gets out of the car, thin in his stolen uniform, cleanly shaven.

Kala shakes, her eyes heavy with tears, and she silently passes the gun strap over his shoulders when he reaches her. He takes her face in his hands and she closes her eyes, inhaling him as their noses touch. The wind whips her dress around them both as they kiss, sinking, flying.

"It worked," she breathes.

"Get on the plane," he tells her. "I'll come back."

She nods. He hugs his mother and kisses the side of her head, then hugs Felix before returning to his car with the gun.

* * *

Wolfgang has driven the narrow forested street to his family's mansion nearly every day since he was young, but today the trees are new. His tires hum on the wet pavement and the sun filters through the sparse spring leaves above. He approaches the gate slowly, and parks short of it, noting the guards; for the first time, they are meant to keep Sergei and Steiner in rather than keep others out.

Wolfgang closes his door quietly, gun in his hands, and steps behind the hedge that borders the mansion. The ground is soft from snowmelt, the branches thick with tiny birds. He looks through the hedge near the woods at the back of the property, watching more guards pace on the courtyard, and weighs how to proceed; a week ago, he promised Diego that no more officers would die. He steadies the gun under his chin and adjusts it to find the front drive in his crosshairs; he waits, then shoots a guard in the arm; the guards closer to him draw their weapons and rush towards their injured companion at the front of the mansion.

Wolfgang enters through the back, knocking vases and statues casually off of Sergei's shelves.

He finds Steiner first, in the kitchen, frozen in fear at the noise of glass and marble crashing. He has his gun drawn towards Wolfgang.

Wolfgang's eyes grow cold and amused. "Should have stayed in prison."

Steiner appears more rodent-like after a month apart. He takes a step back in a ragged suede jacket and raises his gun higher. Wolfgang knows he would shoot easily against anyone else, aim well, perhaps escape. But his shock works to Wolfgang's advantage and he takes Steiner's gun from his hand and throws it aside, the nose of his own gun buried in his chest.

Steiner grows clammy. "I didn't do shit, didn't give you away, didn't--"

Wolfgang pulls the trigger and jostles Steiner's body off his gun, then aims automatically at a sound in the doorway to the hall. He sees Sergei staring at him with a glass of bourbon in his hand, tilted so it almost spills.

"There are guards here," says Sergei faintly.

"There are?" asks Wolfgang, then fires.

He returns to his car from the side exit, the guards now drawn by the two shots inside the mansion. He drives away as unscathed as he arrived. The airfield isn't far. The wind carries the whine of the sirens, twisted and warped in the air; the noise blankets him, but it is powerless. He is in the eye of his life -- for once, if only once, he is untouchable.

He reaches the field and quickly abandons his car, hurrying up the steps of the plane, where he finds Kala. She takes him in her arms and he kisses her against the bulkhead, the door suctioning closed behind them. She draws a breath and raps affirmatively on the door to the cockpit.

The plane begins to move down the runway.


End file.
